S  R  L  F 

Date  due  is  stairped  on  charge 
slip  in  back  of  item. 

Material  must  be  returned  to 

the  unit  from  "which  it 

was  checked  cut. 

DO  NOT  REMDVE  THIS  BAND 


(i) 


UJ 


DO  NOT  PHdVE  THIS  BAND 


Southern  Regional  Library 
405  Hilgard  Avenue 


POPULAR    NOVELS. 
BY 

Mrs.  Mary  J.  Holmes. 

1. —TEMPEST    AND   SUNSHINE. 

2. — ENGLISH  ORPHANS. 

8. — HOMESTEAD  ON  THE  HILLSIDES. 

4. — 'LENA  RIVERS. 

5. — MKADOW  BROOK. 

6.  — DOHA  DKANE. 

7.— COUSIN   MAUDE. 

8.— MARIAN   OKAY. 

9. — DAHKNE.SS  AND   DAYLIGHT. 
10. — HUGH   WORTH INGTON. 
11. — CAMERON   PRIDE. 
12. — ROSK    MATHER. 
13.— KTIIKI.YN'S  MISTAKE. 
14.— MILLBANK. 
15  — EDNA    BROWNING. 
1(5. — WKST    LAWN 
17.— KDITII   LYI.K.      (New.) 

"Mm.    Holmi-K  In  a  peculiarly  plc-awim  tind   fascinating 

writer.     >Icr  books  are  Rlwayx  ent«-rtamin2,  mid  r-he 

ban  the  rare  faculty  <>f  Riili»:ing  the  nympathy 

and  nffectioriK  of  hi-r  n-diit-r-',  and  of  holding 

their  atu-nlion   to  h  T  imsrea  wilh  deep 

and  abaortnng  iiiU;rc-'t." 

All  puhlLhcd  uniform  with  this  volume.     Prirp  $  1 .50  each 
and  henty/'c<  by  mail,  on  iccelpi  of  price,  l»y 

O.   W.   <   \  U  I.I   I  ON  ,v  CO.,   Piibll»henit 
New    York. 


EDITH  LYLE. 


MRS.    MARY    J.    HOLMES, 


VUTHOR   OF 


TEMPEST   AND    SUNSHINE — LENA    RIVERS — MEADOW-BROOK — MARIAN 

GREY— CAMERON    PRIDE— ETHELYN'S     MISTAKE— EDNA 

BROWNING — WEST    LAWN,    ETC.,    ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 

G.    W.    Carleton  &    Co.,  Publishers. 

LONDON:     S.    LOW    &   CO. 
MDCCCLXXVI. 


COPYRIGHT,  1876,  BY 
DANIEL     HOLMES, 


„    J->MN  F.  TROW  &  Son, 
PRINTERS  AND  STKRKOTYPILRS, 
aoi-ai3  East  \itk  Street, 


TO 

MY  ESTEEMED   FRIENDS, 

9.  9 iwrt  4mfl  $mti$  9.  Jtottfc, 

Editors  of  the  Netu  York  Wetkly, 

TO  WHOM 
I  AM  INDEBTED   FOR   SO   MANY  KINDNESSES   IN  THE   PAST, 


THIS  STORY. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY.     By  Esther  Olivia  Armstrong 9 

I. ,  and  Call  it  Abelard 10 

II.— Heloise 14 

III.— The  Day  of  the  Funeral 21 

IV.— The  Confession 28 

V.— Edith  Lyle 36 

VI.— The  Beginning  of  a  New  Life 41 

VII.— Eleven  Years  Later 44 

VIII. — Mother  and  Daughter 51 

IX.— Godfrey  Schuyler 56 

X.— Colonel  Schuyler 68 

XL— Edith's  Diary 76 

XII.— Edith  and  her  Mother 81 

XIII.— Mrs.  Barrett's  Lodgers 84 

XIV.— Colonel  Schuyler  Returns 87 

XV.— Edith's  Answer 92 

XVI. — Breaking  the  News 101 

XVII.— The  Bridal 108 

XVIIL— At  Oakwood  after  the  Bridal 114 

XIX.— The  Bridal  Days 119 

XX.— On  the  Sea 132 

XXL— The  Ladies  at  Schuyler  HilL 145 

XXII.— The  News  at  Schuyler  HilL 149 

XXIII. — Mrs.  Rogers  and  Gertie  at  Hampstead 159 

XXIV.— Mrs.  Rogers  Gets  Work 1 72 

XXV.— They  Come 175 

XXVI.— How  they  Received  her 178 

XXVIL— After  Dinner 189 

XXVIIL— One  Day  in  Hampstead 198 

XXIX.— The  First  Sunday  in  Hampstead 209 

XXX.— Company  at  Schuyler  Hill 217 

XXXI.— The  Church  Sociable. 222 

XXXIL— Mrs.  Rogers  Speaks  her  Mind 230 

XXXIII.— The  New  Life  at  the  Hill 234 


viii  CONTENT^. 

CHAPTER  PAG* 

XXXIV.— Mary  Rogers. 240 

XXXV.— Gertie  at  the  Hill 246 

XXXVI.— After  Four  Years 256 

XXXVII.— The  Travellers 261 

XXXVIII.— Colonel  Schuyler  Interviews  Godfrey 275 

XXXIX.— Colonel  Schuyler  Interviews  Gertie 282 

XL. — Robert  Macpherson  Interviews  Gertie 288 

XLI. — A  few  Details  of  that  Summer  in  Hampstead 293 

XLII.— The  Sail  on  the  River 297 

XLIII.— The  Course  of  Love  does  not  Run  Smooth 304 

XLIV.— Godfrey  and  Gertie .' 307 

XLV.— Robert  Macpherson  and  Colonel  Schuyler 313 

XLVI.— Godfrey  and  his  Father .*. 315 

XLVII.— Waiting « 318 

XLVIII. — Giving  in  Marriage 320 

XLIX.— Mrs.  Doctor  Barrett 323 

L. — The  Storm  Gathering 330 

LI.— The  Storm  Bursts 333 

LII.— The  Battle  between  Life  and  Death 343 

LIII.— Colonel  Schuyler  and  the  Secret 348 

LIV.— Husband  and  Wife 356 

LV.— The  Search  in  London 364 

LVI.— Gertie 372 

LVII.— In  New  York 375 

LVIII.— Gertie  and  the  Story 384 

LIX.— The  Story  in  Hampstead 391 

LX.— Edith  and  Gertie- 397 

LXL— Godfrey  and  Gertie 402 

LXII.— The  Wedding 408 

LXIII.— Mary  Rogers'  Letter  to  Edith. 411 

LXI V.,  and  Last 419 


EDITH    LYLE. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

BY   ESTHER   OLIVIA   ARMSTRONG. 

|S  I  sit  here,  this  bright  autumnal  morning,  and  from  the 
window  of  my  room  look  out  upon  the  river  winding 
its  way  to  the  sea,  there  falls  upon  my  ears  the  merry 
chime  of  bells  from  the  tower  of  the  old  gray  church, — wedding- 
bells  they  are, — and  their  echoes  float  across  the  water,  and  up 
the  mountain  side,  and  then  die  away  among  the  wooded  cliffs 
beyond,  where  the  foliage  has  just  been  touched  with  the  Octo- 
ber frost,  and  has  here  and  there  a  gay  trimming  of  scarlet  and 
gold  on  its  summer  dress  of  green.  There  is  a  wedding  at  St. 
Luke's  to-day,  and  the  bridal  party  is  passing  now,  and  I  kiss 
my  hand  to  the  beautiful  bride,  who  flashes  a  smile  at  me  from 
those  wonderful  eyes  of  hers, — eyes  so  like  in  expression  to  those 
of  the  elder  lady  who  sits  beside  her,  and  but  for  whom  that 
wedding  at  St.  Luke's  would  never  have  been.  They  are  gone 
now  from  my  sight,  and  only  the  pealing  of  the  bells  is  heard  in 
the  quiet  street,  and  as  I  muse  upon  the  strange  event  which 
has  made  the  people  of  our  town  wild  with  excitement  and  curi- 
osity, and  of  which  I,  perhaps,  know  quite  as  much  as  any  one, 
I  ask  myself,  "  Why  not  write  out  the  story,  suppressing  names, 
and  dates,  and  localities,  and  give  it  to  the  world,  as  a  proof 
that  real  life  is  sometimes  stranger  than  fiction." 

And  so,  just  as  the  sound  of  the  marriage-bells  dies  away 
among  the  distant  hills,  I  take  my  pen  to  begin  a  tale  which 
i* 


10  AA'D    CALL   IT  ABQLARD. 

will  have  in  it  no  part  of  my  own  life,  save  as  it  was  sometimes 
interwoven  with  the  lives  of  those  whose  history  I  write,  /am 
only  Esther  Armstrong,  the  village  school-mistress,  a  plain,  old- 
fashioned  woman  of  thirty-five,  with  no  incident  whatever  in  my 
life  worth  recording  ;  and  so,  with  no  thought  that  any  one  will 
accuse  me  of  egotism  or  conceit,  I  write  down 


CHAPTER  I., 

AND    CALL    IT   ABELARD. 

JHE  Schuylers  were  of  Holland  descent,  and  had  mar- 
ried and  intermarried  in  England  and  America,  and 
had  in  their  family  a  title,  it  was  said,  and  they 
boasted  of  their  Dutch  blood,  and  English  blood,  and  Ameri- 
can blood,  and,  like  the  famous  Miss  McBride,  "  were  proud 
of  their  money  and  proud  of  their  pride,"  and  proud  to  be 
known  as  "  the  Schuylers  of  New  York,"  who  had  for  so 
many  years  kept  themselves  free  from  anything  approaching  to 
plebeianism,  and  whose  wealth  and  importance  had  been  steadily 
on  the  increase  since  the  first  English  Schuyler  left  his  ances- 
tral halls  in  Lincolnshire  across  the  sea.  But  the  race  was 
gradually  dying  out,  and  the  only  male  member  of  the  direct 
line  in  America  was  Colonel  Howard,  a  proud,  reticent  man, 
who,  a  few  years  before  my  story  opens,  had  married  Miss 
Emily  Rossi ter,  a  lady  fully  up  to  the  Schuyler  standard  of  moral 
and  social  worth. 

It  was  trile  she  brought  with  her  a  plain  face  and  a  brain  not 
overburdened  with  ideas,  but  she  added  to  these  the  sum  of  two 
hundred  thousand  dollars  and  an  exclusiveness  which  saw  noth- 
ing outside  her  own  narrow  circle  of  friends.  At  the  time  of 
her  marriage  her  husband,  Colonel  Howard  Schuyler,  who  loved 
the  fresh  grass  and  the  air  from  the  hills  better  than  brick  walls 
and  stony  pavements,  suggested  that  they  should  spend  a  por- 
tion of  the  summer  at  his  country-seat  on  the  river,  but  to  this 
the  lady  would  not  listen.  Hampstead  was  too  quiet.  Her 


AND   CALL  IT  ABELARU.  IT 

elegant  laces,  and  satins,  and  diamonds,  would  be  sadly  out  of 
place  in  that  rustic  neighborhood,  she  thought ;  and  so  she  went 
first  to  Europe,  and  then,  season  after  season,  to  Newport  and 
Saratoga,  and  had  a  cottage  at  Nahant,  and  climbed  the  White 
Mountains  and  the  Catskills;  and  tired  herself  out  in  her  pursuit 
of  happiness,  until,  at  last,  broken  in  health  and  spirits,  she  sig- 
nified a  wish  to  go  to  Ham'pstead,  whexe  she  could  find  the  rest 
she  needed.  «' 

And  so  one  April  day  Colonel  Schuyler  came  up  to  our  little 
town  with  a  whole  army  of  workmen,  who  began. at  once  their 
task  of  tearing  down  and  rebuilding  the  old  house,  which  had 
belonged  to  the  Schuylers  so  long,  and  which  latterly  had  been 
unoccupied  and  gradually  going  to  decay.  The  house,  which 
was  very  .large,  stood  upon  an  eminence  overlooking  the  town 
of  Hampstead  and  the  river  below,  and  from  this  fact  the  place 
was  known  as  Schuyler  Hill,  though  for  years  and  years  not  a 
Schuyler  had  lived  there  or  manifested  the  slightest  interest  in 
it.  There  was  a  time,  however,  within  my  mother's  memory, 
when  all  through  the  summer  months  high  festival  had  been 
held  at  the  old  place  by  the  Schuylers,  whose  graves  were  now 
in  a  little  inclosure  at  the  summit  of  the  hill,  where  the  tall 
evergreens  were  growing,  and  where  the  weather-stained  head- 
stones were,  with  their  quaint  devices  and  eulogies  of  people 
dead  long  before  I  was  born.  Sometimes  on  a  bright  summer 
afternoon  I  used  to  climb  over  the  low  railing  into  this  yard,  to 
gather  the  roses  and  sweet-brier  which  grew  there  in  such  pro- 
fusion, and,  seated  on  the  grass,  I  would  muse  upon  the  dead 
folk  who  slept  below,  and  wish  so  much  for  a  return  of  the  days 
of  which  my  mother  had  told  me,  when  the  great  house  was  full 
of  high-born  people,  who  made  the  neighborhood  so  gay,  and 
whose  revellings  were  sometimes  prolonged  far  into  the  night. 

At  last,  however,  there  was  a  prospect  of  those  days  coming 
back  again,  and  the  whole  town  was  alive  with  wonder  and 
curiosity  when  it  was  known  that  not  only  was  the  old  house  to 
give  way  to  a  new  and  elegant  modern  structure,  but  that  the 
family  was  really  coming  there  to  live  a  good  portion  of  the 
year.  Hampstead,  which  had  slept  so  long,  was  alive  now. 


12  AALt   CALL  IT  ABELARD. 

1'roperty  went  up,  and  the  people  began  to  talk  of  a  bank,  and 
a  new  hotel,  and  sent  a  petition  that  the  express  trains  from 
Albany  should  stop  there,  instead  of  thundering  by  on  the 
•wings  of  the  wind  with  a  snort  and  a  scream,  which  I  thought 
was  tantalizing  and  impertinent  in  the  extreme.  Great,  too, 
was  the  excitement  and  interest  with  regard  to  the  new  house, 
which,  under  swift  and  efficient  workmen,  grew  so  rapidly  that, 
early  in  June,  the  framework  of  the  tower  could  be  seen  above 
the  tree-tops,  and  was  watched  eagerly  by  the  curious  villagers. 
"  Lady  Emily,"  as  her  English  maid  always  called  her,  came 
up  one  day  to  see  the  place  and  give  some  directions  with  re- 
gard to  certain  rooms  intended  expressly  for  herself,  and  with 
her  came  little  Godfrey,  her  only  son,  a  brown-eyed,  sweet-faced 
boy  not  quite  six  years  old.  I  remember  just  how  they  looked 
as  they  drove  through  the  town  in  their  open  barouche,  Lady 
Emily  in  her  jaunty  bonnet,  which  I  thought  too  small  and  young 
for  her  pale,  faded  face,  and  little  Godfrey  in  his  velvet  suit, 
with  his  long  hair  curling  on  his  neck.  He  was  a  pleasant,  so- 
ciable child,  and  soon  made  the  acquaintance  of  all  the  work- 
men, but  was  best  pleased  with  Abelard  Lyle,  the  young  Eng- 
lishman who  was  employed  upon  the  tower,  and  who  at  night, 
when  his  work  was  done,  made  wonderful  wagons  and  carts  for 
the  pretty  little  lad.  All  day  long  Godfrey  played  about  the 
building,  and  sometimes  climbed  the  highest  possible  point,  and 
stood  watching  the  men  at  their  work  below.  Especially  was 
he  delighted  with  the  tower  where  Abelard  was  ;  and  one  morn- 
ing, the  third  after  his  arrival  at  Hampstead,  he  mounted  to  a 
timber  above  the  young  man's  head,  where  he  stood  waving  his 
cap  and  hurrahing  to  his  mother,  who  was  driving  leisurely 
about  the  grounds  in  her  pony  phaeton.  She  saw  him,  and  with 
a  frantic  gesture  of  her  hand  motioned  him  to  come  clown, 
while  Abelard,  too,  called  aloud  to  him  and  warned  him  of  his 
danger.  How  it  happened  Godfrey  never  could  explain.  He 
only  knew  that  he  stepped  backward  and  fell,  that  Abelard 
c  au^ht  him  by  the  arm  and  threw  him  with  a  desperate  effort 
upon  a  nairow  platform,  where  he  lay  unharmed,  while  his 
brave  deliverer  la)-  on  the  rubbish  far  below,  a  crushed,  bleed- 


AND   CALL  IT  ABELARD.  13 

ing  thing !  Only  a  thing  now, — no  life,  no  motion,  no  soul,  for 
that  had  gone  to  God  ;  and  they  took  the  limp,  insensible  ob- 
ject and  laid  it  upon  the  grass,  which  was  wet  with  the  blood 
pouring  from  the  deep  wound  upon  the  temple  where  a  sharp 
stone  had  struck.  Trembling  with  fear,  little  Godfrey  came 
down  the  long  ladders  and  across  the  piles  of  boards  to  the 
mutilated  form  upon  the  grass ;  and  young  as  he  was,  he  never 
forgot  the  look  of  the  pale,  dead  face  upturned  to  the  summer 
sun. 

"  Oh  father  ! "  he  cried,  as  Colonel  Schuyler  came  up,  "  he 
catched  me  and  throwd  me  onto  the  board,  and  tried  to  hold 
on  himself,  but  couldn't ;  and  now  he's  dead,  and  I  liked  him 
so  much ;  what  shall  we  do  ?  " 

They  could  do  nothing  but  bear  the  poor  youth  to  his  board- 
ing place  near  by,  where  they  washed  the  blood  and  dirt  from 
his  stained  face  and  matted  hair,  and  then  began  to  ask  where 
he  came  from,  and  who  his  relatives  were,  if  he  had  any.  He 
was  an  English  boy,  and  had  not  been  long  in  the  country,  some 
one  said  ;  but  nobody  could  tell  anything  definite  concerning  him 
or  his  friends,  until  there  stepped  from  the  crowd  an  elderly, 
dignified  woman,  whom  the  people  recognized  as  Mrs.  Fordham, 
a  comparative  stranger  to  them  all.  She,  too,  was  English,  and 
she  knew  the  youth  who  had  lost  his  own  life  in  his  efforts  to 
save  another.  She  had  known  him  on  the  ship,  she  said.  He 
had  come  to  America  in  the  same  vessel  with  herself  a  few 
months  before.  If  they  liked,  they  could  take  him  to  her  house 
and  bury  him  from  there,  as  she  was  the  only  acquaintance  he 
seemed  to  have,  and  he  had  sometimes  called  upon  her  since 
coming  to  Hampstead.  To  this  proposition  the  matron  of 
the  boarding-house  assented  eagerly.  A  dead  body  and  a  fun- 
eral were  not  at  all  to.  her  taste,  and  besides  she  was  not  sure 
as  to  the  pay  she  might  receive  for  her  trouble,  and  she  thanked 
Mrs.  Fordham  so  cordially,  and  evinced  so  strong  a  desire  to  be 
rid  of  her  late  boarder,  that  the  matter  was  arranged  at  once, 
and  Mrs.  Fordham  started  for  home  to  make  ready  for  the  dead 
man,  who  had  been  there  only  the  night  before,  and  had  left  her 
so  full  of  life,  and  health,  and  hope  for  the  untried  future. 


14  HELOISE 

CHAPTER  II. 

HELOISE. 

jF  Mrs.  Fordham  but  little  was  known  in  Hampstead  at 
that  time.  She  had  only  been  with  us  since  the  first 
of  May,  and  soon  after  her  coming  she  had  said  that 
if  she  could  not  have  the  best  society  she  would  prefer  to  have 
none  ;  and  as  the  so-called  best  society  was  a  little  shy  of 
strangers  and  foreigners,  she  was  left  mostly  to  herself,  and 
was  seldom  seen  except  at  church,  where  she  was  a  regular 
attendant,  and  where  her  daughter,  a  young  girl  of  fifteen  or 
more,  attracted  much  attention  by  the  exceeding  beauty  of  her 
face,  and  the  delicate  refinement  of  her  manner. 

Subsequently  we  learned  more  of  her  history,  which  was  as 
follows  : 

A  native  of  Berwick,  in  England,  she  belonged  to  what  might 
be^called  the  "  higher  poor  class."  A  nursery  governess  in  her 
girlhood,  she  had  come  in  constant  contact  with  many  high- 
born ladies  who  visited  in  the  family  of  her  employer,  and  whom 
she  watched  and  imitated  until  there  was  in  her  manner  a  cer- 
tain dignity  and  air  of  cultivation  which  marked  her  as  different 
from  others  in  her  own  rank  of  life.  Exceedingly  ambitious, 
she  refused  mahy  an  offer  which  her  companions  called  good, 
and  at  the  age  of  thirty  was  married  to  Henry  Fordham,  a  poor 
curate,  whose  parish  was  on  the  Scottish  border  among  the 
heather  hills.  Here,  after  three  years  of  wedded  life,  she  buried 
him  and  returned  to  her  lonely  home  in  Berwick,  with  one  only 
child,  a  little  girl,  whom  she  called  Edith  Heloise. 

As  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  Edith  was  a  born  lady,  and 
Mrs.  Fordham  felt  all  her  old  ambition  revive,  as  she  thought 
what  her  daughter  might  one  day  become, — a  titled  lady  perhaps, 
and  certainly  the  mistress  of  some  rich  man's  home  ;  and  to 
this  end  she  was  carefully  secluded  from  the  common  people 
around  her.  and  early  taught  to  think  that  a  brilliant  future  lay 
before  her  if  she  would  follow  implicitly  the  instructions  ol  her 


HELOISE.  15 

mother.  From  a  distant  relative  Mrs.  Fordham  had  received  a 
small  annuity,  on  which  she  managed  to  live  very  comfortably 
until  Edith,  or  Heloise,  as  she  preferred  to  call  her,  was  fifteen, 
when  she  determined  upon  emigrating  to  America,  where  her 
daughter's  chances  for  a  high  social  position  were  greater  than 
in  England. 

In  the  same  vessel  with  her  was  Abelard  Lyle,  a  young  car- 
penter from  Alnwick,  who  was  also  going  to  seek  his  fortune  in 
the  western  world.  Arrived  at  New  York  he  found  employment 
at  once  on  Col.  Schuyler's  house  in  Hampstead,  whither,  at  his 
instigation,  Mrs.  Fordham  removed  early  in  May.  She  was  want- 
ing a  cottage  in  the  country,  she  said,  and  Abelard  found  one  for 
her  and  persuaded  her  to  take  it,  and  attended  himself  to  fit- 
ting it  up,  and  stood  waiting  to  welcome  her  when  she  came  at 
last  to  take  possession.  Mrs.  Fordham  was  very  gracious  and 
thanked  him  for  his  thoughtfulness,  and  said  he  was  very  good 
and  she  should  not  forget  his  kind  interest  in  her  ;  and  yet  there 
was  in  her  manner  something  which  he  understood,  and  which 
made  him  doubly  anxious  to  please  and  propitiate  her.  He 
was  well  enough  as  a  friend  and  adviser,  and  during  the  voyage 
and  after  their  arrival  in  New  York,  Mrs.  Fordham  had  found  it 
convenient  to  call  upon  him  for  help  whenever  she  pleased,  but 
she  alxvays  managed  to  make  him  feel  how  immeasurable  was 
the  gulf  between  him  and  her  daughter,  whose  servant  he  might 
be,  but  nothing  more. 

Heloise  was  vvondrously  beautiful,  with  an  ease  and  grace 
about  her  which  would  have  become  a  princess.  From  her 
father's  side  she  had  inherited  "  good  blood,"  a  fact  which  her 
mother  kept  constantly  before  her  mind.  And  as  she  talked  of 
the  brilliant  matches  which  had  been  made  in  the  new  world  and 
could  be  made  again,  Heloise  listened,  at  first  quietly,  with  a 
peculiar  look  in  her  eyes  and  a  bright  flush  on  her  cheek.  Lat- 
terly, however,  there  had  been  a  worried,  anxious  expression  on 
her  face  when  her  mother  was  talking  to  her,  and  on  the  morn- 
ing of  which  I  write  she  had  left  her  coffee  untouched  and  stoleri 
from  the  room  so  as  not  to  hear  what  her  mother  was  saying  of 
Abelard  Lyle.  He  had  called  upon  them  the  previous  night, 


1 6  HELOISE. 

and  stayed  too  long  and  seemed  too  much  at  home,  Mrs.  Ford- 
ham  thought. 

"  He  is  a  fine  young  man,  I  know,  and  I  respect  him  very 
much,"  she  said  ;  "  but  he  is  only  a  carpenter,  and  I  do  not 
think  it  well  to  be  very  intimate  with  him.  I  saw  you  give  him 
a  rose.  I  wouldn't  do  it  again,  or  encourage  him  to  come  here." 

Mrs.  Fordham  was  talking  to  herself  now,  for  Heloise  was  in 
the  garden,  with  her  face  turned  toward  Schuyler  Hill,  where 
the  men  were  already  at  work.  She  could  hear  the  sound  of 
their  hammers,  as  stroke  after  stroke  fell  upon  the  heavy  tim- 
bers, and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if.  there  were  a  low  undertone  of 
music  in  it  all,  especially  in  the  strokes  which  rang  out  from  the 
tall  tower  rising  above  the  trees.  There  was  a  fascination  about 
that  tower ;  and  all  during  the  morning,  while  her  mother,  who 
had  an  errand  in  the  village,  was  away,  Heloise  sat  by  the  win- 
dow, where  she  could  see  the  square  frame  and  the  broad-shoul- 
dered figure  upon  it. 

Once,  when  she  felt  sure  the  face  was  turned  toward  her,  she 
waved  her  handkerchief,  and  was  rewarded  with  a  flourish  in, 
the  air  of  the  right  arm,  and  then  she  knew  that  Abelard  could 
see  her ;  and  she  sat  very  still,  and  applied  herself  to  the  ruffle 
she  was  hemming,  and  thought  such  thoughts  as  made  her 
cheeks  the  color  of  the  rose  she  had  given  to  Abelard  the  pre- 
vious night. 

And  while  she  sat  there  thus,  there  was  the  sound  of  carriage- 
wheels,  and  Lady  Emily  Schuyler  drove  slowly  down  the  road 
with  her  English  maid  in  attendance.  Heloise  had  seen  the 
lady  in  church  the  day  before,  but  instead  of  staring  at  her  as 
the  others  had  done,  had  shrunk  from  view,  and  was  glad  that 
she  sat  behind  the  Schuyler  pew  instead  of  in  front  of  it.  And 
now,  as  the  carriage  came  near,  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  to 
avoid  being  seen. 

Thus  screened  from  observation,  she  sat  waiting  for  it  to  pass, 
and  her  heart  gave  a  great  thump  when  she  heard  it  stop 
directly  before  the  house,  while  Mrs.  Schuyler  uttered  an  excla- 
mation of  delight  at  the  roses  growing  so  profusely  in  the  yard. 

"Oh,  Janette,  how   lovely   those  roses  are!     1  must  have 


HELOISE.  17 

some  for  my  hair, — they  will  brighten  me  up  at  dinner,  and  I 
am  looking  pale  and  forlorn,  and  that  vexes  Colonel  Schuyler 
so.  I  wonder  if  there  is  any  one  at  home." 

"  There  must  be,  for  both  doors  and  windows  are  open. 
Wait  while  I  see." 

And,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  the  maid,  Janette,  sprang 
to  the  ground,  and,  opening  the  gate,  walked  up  to  the  door  of 
the  room  where  Heloise  was  sitting. 

There  was  no  help  for  her  now.  The  danger,  if  danger  there 
was  in  seeing  Mrs.  Schuyler,  must  be  met,  and  Heloise  rose  at 
once,  and  to  Janette's  explanation  that  "Lady  Emily  would  like 
a  few  of  those  lovely  roses,"  she  bowed  assent,  and  went  herself 
to  get  them. 

"  It  may  as  well  come  first  as  last,"  she  thought,  and,  with- 
out any  covering  for  her  head,  she  went  out  into  the  yard,  and, 
gathering  a  bunch  of  the  finest  flowers,  carried  them  to  Mrs. 
Schuyler,  who  looked  curiously  at  her,  while  she  expressed  her 
thanks. 

Very  curiously,  too,  Heloise  looked  at  her,  thinking  it  would 
take  more  than  roses  to  brighten  up  that  sallow,  sickly  face, 
and  not  much  wondering  that  Colonel  Schuyler  did  not  like  it. 

"I  don't  believe  she  remembered  me,"  she  said,  as  she  re- 
turned to  the  house  and  watched  the  carriage  disappearing 
from  view.  "And  why  should  she  ?  "  she  continued.  "  She 
was  not  at  all  interested  in  the  matter,  and  only  thought  of  me 
as  some  common  girl  doing  a  very  foolish  thing,  I  daresay. 
She  looks  paler  than  she  did  then,  and  more  fretful,  too.  I 
wonder  if  she  is  happy  with  all  her  money  ?  " 

And  Heloise  fell  to  speculating  as  to  whether  she  could  be 
happy  if  she  were  Mrs.  Schuyler  and  lived  in  that  handsome 
house  on  Schuyler  Hill.  It  would  be  a  fine  thing,  no  doubt, 
to  have  all  the  money  one  wanted,  and  not  to  be  obliged  to 
turn  and  fix  and  mend  the  Sunday  dress  until  there  was  but 
little  of  the  original  left ;  and  she  tried  to  fancy  herself  the 
mistress  of  Schuyler  Hill,  with  Colonel  Schuyler  away  and  some 
one  else  in  his  place,  and  her  eyes  went  over  the  tree-tops  to 
the  tall  tower  and  the  figure  working  there. 


1 8  HELOISE. 

"  Better  as  it  is,"  she  thought,  and  leaning  back  in  her  chair 
she  went  off  into  a  pleasant  kind  of  reverie,  from  which  she  was 
roused  by  the  sound  of  horse's  feet,  galloping  swiftly  down  the 
road  as  if  on  an  errand  of  life  or  death. 

The  rider  was  one  of  the  men  from  Schuyler  Hill,  and 
swiftly  as  he  rode  Heloise  detected  a  look  of  terroi  on  his  face 
and  wondered  what  had  happened. 

Involuntarily  she  glanced  again  toward  the  tower,  and  missed 
the  form  she  had  seen  there  a  short  time  before.  But  there 
was  nothing  strange  in  that.  She  often  missed  him  when  he 
went  down  for  nails  or  orders  from  his  overseer,  and  she 
thought  no  more  of  it  until  an  hour  later,  when  her  mother 
came  up  the  walk,  looking  very  red  and  disturbed,  and  asking, 
abruptly  : 

"  Have  you  heard  of  the  dreadful  accident  at  the  Hill  ?" 

Heloise  never  could  explain  why  it  was  that  she  seemed  in- 
tuitively to  know  that  the  accident  had  reference  to  the  only 
one  through  whom  she  could  be  deeply  touched.  But  she  did 
know  it,  and  her  lips  were  pale  as  ashes,  and  trembled  in  a 
grieved  kind  of  way  as  she  said  :  "  It  is  Abelard." 

"  Yes  ;  who  told  you  ?  "  her  mother  asked. 

And  Heloise  replied  : 

"  No  one  told  me.  I  knew  without  telling.  Is  he  much 
hurt  ?  Where  is  he  ?  " 

And  she  caught  her  bonnet  from  the  nail  and  started  for  the 
door. 

"  Stop,  child.  Where  are  you  going  ? "  Mrs.  Fordham 
said. 

And  Heloise  replied : 

"  Going  to  Abelard.     Didn't  you  tell  me  he  was  hurt  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but, — Heloise  " — and  Mrs.  Fordham  hesitated  a  little, 
frightened  by  the  expression  on  her  daughter's  face,  "you  must 
not  go.  There  is  no  need  ;  he  will  be  here  soon.  I  told  them 
to  bring  him,  as  we  are  the  only  friends  he  has,  and  I  hurried 
home  to  get  the  front  room  ready.  Abelard  is  dead ;  he  fell 
from  the  tower  and  was  killed ;  there  they  are  now." 

And  pointing  to  the  group  of  men  coming  slowly  down  the 


HELOISE,  19 

road,  Mrs.  Fordham  hastened  to  open  her  best  room,  and  did 
not  see  the  look  of  unutterable  anguish  and  horror  which  came 
into  her  daughter's  face  when  she  heard  the  news. 

Heloise  did  not  faint,  but  she  uttered  a  low,  gasping  cry,  and 
held  fast  to  the  back  of  a  chair,  while  everything  turned  dark 
about  her,  and  she  was  conscious  of  nothing  except  that  in  the 
yard  there  was  the  tramp  of  feet  as  the  men  came  up  the  walk, 
bearing  the  body  of  him  who  had  left  her  only  the  night  before, 
full  of  life  and  health.  Then  she  started,  and  fleeing  up  the 
stairs  to  her  own  room,  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  where  she 
lay  listening  to  the  sounds  below,  and  trying  to  realize  the  full 
extent  of  the  horror  which  had  come  upon  her.  At  last  when 
all  was  quiet,  and  the  men  were  gone,  she  crept  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  upon  the  day,  which  had  seemed  so  bright  to 
her  in  the  early  morning,  but  was  so  dark  and  dreary  n6w. 

Colonel  Schuyler  himself  wa.s  just  going  through  the  gate,  so 
occupied  with  his  own  thoughts  that  he  nearly  stumbled  over  a 
little  girl  who  was  coming  into  the  yard,  and  in  whom  Heloise 
recognized  Phebe  Young,  the  daughter  of  the  woman  with  whom 
Abelard  had  boarded.  Heloise  was  not  afraid  of  Phebe,  but  she 
drew  back  from  the  window  till  Colonel  Schuyler  was  out  of 
sight,  feeling  as  if  she  almost  hated  him  for  having  built  the 
house  where  Abelard  lost  his  life. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  ere  Heloise  could  answer 
it  little  Phebe  Young  came  in.  She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  He- 
loise at  the  window,  and  thinking  it  no  harm,  had  come  straight 
up  to  her  room. 

"  Please,  miss,"  she  said,  laying  a  paper  on  the  young  girl's 
lap,  "we  found  this  under  his  jacket  pinned  tight,  and  ma  knew 
most  it  corned  from  your  rose  bush,  for  there  haint  no  more 
like  it  in  Hampstead,  and  she  sent  it  to  you,  cause  she  guesses 
you  liked  him  some." 

It  was  the  rose  Heloise  had  picked  for  Abelard  and  fastened 
in  his  buttonhole  the  night  before,  when  they  stood  for  a  moment 
by  the  gate,  and  he  told  her  to  watch  for  him  on  the  morrow  as 
he  was  to  work  upon  the  tower.  Now  he  was  dead,  and  the 
rose,  which  had  been  so  fresh  and  dewy  then,  was  wilted  and 


20  HELOISE. 

crushed,  and  right  in  the  centre,  upon  the  pure  white  petals,  was  a 
little  drop  of  blood,  or  rather  the  stain  of  one.  Abelard's  blood, 
Heloise  knew,  and  she  felt  a  strange  sickness  steal  over  her  as 
she  held  the  faded  flower  in  her  hand  and  gazed  upon  that  bright 
red  spot,  the  sight  of  which  seemed  to  stamp  a  similar  mark 
upon  her  heart,  which  ached  and  throbbed  with  a  new  pain. 

"Yes,  Phebe,  thank  you;  it  was  kind  in  your  mother;  and 
now,  please  go ;  my  head  is  aching  badly,"  she  said ;  and 
motioning  Phebe  from  the  room,  she  thrust  the  blood-stained 
rose  into  her  bosom  and  went  again  to  her  bed,  where  she  lay 
until  her  mother  came  to  see  what  she  was  doing. 

There  were  no  tears  on  Heloise's  cheeks,  no  trace  of  them 
in  her  eyes,  but  her  white  face  told  volumes  to  Mrs.  Fordham, 
who  laid  her  hand  on  her  daughter's  hair,  saying,  kindly  : 

"  I  never  knew  you  cared  so  much  for  him.  Poor  boy,  I  am 
so  sorry.  He  looks  very  natural.  Would  you  like  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,  not  now,"  was  the  answer,  and  that  was  all 
that  passed  between  them  on  the  subject  of  Abelard  that 
day. 

Heloise  was  very  sick  with  headache  and  kept  her  room,  and 
at  night  her  mother  brought  her  toast  and  tea,  and  tried  to 
make  her  eat,  and  told  her  how  kind  the  Schuylers  were,  and 
what  a  sweet  little  boy  Godfrey  was,  and  how  badly  he  felt  at 
Abelard's  death.  He  had  been  to  see  the  body,  and  his  mother 
had  been  there,  too,  and  Mrs.  Fordham  dwelt  upon  her  fine 
manners  and  handsome  dress,  and  Godfrey's  velvet  suit  and 
manly  face,  until  Heloise  felt  as  if  she  should  go  mad,  and 
begged  her  mother  to  leave  her. 

She  hated  the  Schuylers  one  and  all,  for  through  them 
Abelard  had  met  his  death,  and  she  did  not  dare  look  into  the 
future  or  question  what  it  had  in  store  for  her.  She  only  felt 
that  all  the  brightness  of  her  life  had  been  suddenly  stricken 
out,  leaving  her  utterly  hopeless  and  desolate,  and  long  after 
her  mother  was  asleep  in  the  next  room  she  lay  awake  wonder- 
ing what  she  should  do,  and  if,  as  she  feared,  it  would  be  neces- 
sary for  her  to  tell.  And  even  if  it  were  not  necessary,  was  it 
right  for  her  to  withhold  the  secret  which  was  torturing  her  so 


THE  DAY  OF   THE  FUNERAL.  21 

cruelly?  Was  it  just  to  Abelard,  and  did  it  not  look  as  if  she 
were  ashamed  of  the  past  as  connected  with  him  ? 

"  I  am  not,  darling,  I  am  not ! "  she  moaned ;  "  and  to-mor- 
row, when  they  lower  you  into  the  grave,  I  will,  be  there,  and, 
in  a  voice  everybody  can  hear,  I'll  tell  the  truth,  and  face  the 
entire  world,  mother  and  all." 

The  facing  mother  was  the  hardest  part  of  all,  and  Heloise 
felt  her  pulse  quicken  and  her  head  throb  violently  as  she 
fancied  her  mother's  look  of  surprise  and  anger  when  she  heard 
the  story  which  she  meant  to  tell  at  the  grave,  and,  while  think- 
ing how  she  should  combat  that  anger  and  reproach,  the  early 
summer  morning  crept  into  her  room,  and  she  heard  the 
watchers  with  the  dead  go  through  the  yard  into  the  street,  and 
knew  that  another  day  had  come. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    DAY   OF   THE    FUNERAL. 

jHERE  was  a  great  crowd  out  to  attend  the  funeral  of 
Abelard  Lyle,  and,  long  before  the  hour  appointed 
for  the  services,  Mrs.  Fordham's  cottage  was  filled  to 
overflowing,  as  were  also  the  yard  and  street  in  front,  and  it  was 
with  some  difficulty  the  Schuyler  family  could  make  their  way 
through  the  dense  mass  of  people. 

They  came  late,  and  little  Godfrey  had  a  knot  of  crape  upon 
his  arm,  while  Mrs.  Schuyler  wore  a  black  silk,  with  no  shade 
of  color  to  relieve  her  sallow  face,  and  she  looked,  with  her 
high-bred  city  air,  very  much  out  of  place,  and  very  much 
bored,  too,  as  if  she  wished  it  well  over,  and  wondered  why  her 
nusband  should  take  so  much  trouble  for  a  poor  young  man, 
and  an  entire  stranger.  And  yet  Lady  Emily  was  not  without 
kindly  feelings,  and  she  felt  very  grateful  to  Abelard  Lyle,  and 
very  sorry  that  he  should  have  lost  his  life  in  saving  that  of  her 
son  ;  and,  at  her  husband's  suggestion,  she  had  been  to  the 
cottage  the  day  before  to  see  that  everything  was  right,  and 


22  THE  DAY  OF   THE  FUNERAL. 

had  spoken  civilly  to  Mrs.  Fordhain,  and  asked  for  some  more 
roses,  saying : 

"  I  have  had  some  once  to-day.  I  was  driving  by  just  before 
the  terrible  accident,  and  saw  such  a  lovely  young  girl, — your 
daughter,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,"  Mrs.  Fordham  replied,  a  new  hope 
rising  within  her  that  through  the  Schuylers  Heloise  might 
make  her  way  to  distinction. 

Heloise  had  a  headache,  she  said,  else  she  would  like  so  much 
for  Mrs.  Schuyler  to  see  her,  and  she  thanked  her  for  speaking 
so  kindly  of  her,  and  hoped  she  would  call  again  when  the 
funeral  was  over. 

To  all  this  Lady  Emily  pretended  to  listen  and  nod  assent, 
and,  when  she  had  all  the  roses  she  cared  for,  she  said  good- 
morning^and  went  back  to  the  hotel,  where  she  recounted  the 
particulars  of  her  call  to  the  English  maid,  with  whom  she  was 
on  very  familiar  terms. 

"  Such  assurance,"  she  said,  "  as  that  woman  has !  Why, 
she  talked  to  me  as  if  I  were  her  equal,  and  even  asked  me 
to  call  again.  She  wanted  me  to  see  her  daughter, — that  beau- 
tiful young  girl  whom  we  saw  in  our  drive  this  morning.  Did  I 
tell  you  that  is  where  they  have  taken  the  young  man  ?  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  he  were  the  lover  of  the  girl,  only 
she  looked  so  very  young.  It  seems  to  me  I  must  have  seen 
her  before." 

The  appearance  of  Colonel  Schuyler  brought  to  an  end  the 
lady's  conversation  with  Janette,  and  turning  to  her  husband, 
she  asked  where  they  were  intending  to  bury  the  young  man. 

"  In  our  own  family  lot,"  was  the  reply  ;  and  then  Lady 
Emily  dropped  the  flowers  she  was  arranging,  and  her  eyes 
opened  wider  than  their  wont,  and  fixed  themselves  upon  her 
husband  with  a  look  of  incredulity  as  she  said  :  "  Why,  Howard, 
you  must  be  crazy  !  Surely  there  are  places  enough  without 
putting  him  there." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but,  Emily,  consider  for  a  moment, — he 
saved  our  boy's  life,  and  I  feel  like  paying  him  every  possible 
respect,  and  have  ordered  his  grave  to  be  made  just  under  the 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  FUNERAL.  23 

pine  tree  at  the  far  side  of  the  lot.     There  is  room  enough 
between  for  all  the  Schuvlers  who  will  ever  be  buried  there." 

Lady  Emily  knew  from  experience'  that  when  her  husband's 
mind  was  made  up,  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  him,  so  she 
said  no  more,  but  thought  within  herself  that  when  her  time 
came  to  die,  she  would  request  that  her  aristocratic  flesh  be 
laid  in  Greenwood  beside  the  Rossiters,  and  not  on  Schuyler 
Hill,  in  that  little  yard  where  a  few  gray,  time-worn  stones 
marked  the  last  resting-place  of  such  of  the  Schuylers  as  were 
buried  there,  and  where  Abelard  Lyle  was  to  be  taken.  Colo- 
nel Schuyler  was  in  one  sense  as  proud  as  his  wife,  but  with  his 
pride  he  had  much  good  sense  and  genuine  kindness  of  heart. 
But  for  Abelard  Lyle  he  would  have  lost  his  bright-faced  boy, 
and  he  felt  truly  grateful  to  the  young  man,  and  resolved  to 
show  him  every  possible  respect.  So  he  ordered  the  funeral 
himself,  and  sent  to  the  cottage  a  handsome  rosewood  coffin, 
and  was  in  and  out  several  times  to  see  that  all  was  right,  and 
when  the  hour  for  the  services  arrived,  drove  down  with  his  wife 
and  son,  and  enacted  the  part  of  chief,  and,  indeed,  only 
mourner,  for  Abelard  had  no  relatives,  and  Mrs.  Fordham  was 
too  much  afraid  of  being  identified  with  "  that  class  of  people  " 
to  admit  of  any  great  manifestation  of  feeling  on  her  part.  For 
the  sake  of  the  mother  country,  and  because  he  had  been  kind 
to  her  on  the  ship,  she  had  allowed  the  body  to  be  brought  to 
her  house,  but  she  managed  to  impress  every  one  with  the 
great  distance  there  was  between  herself  and  the  dead  man, 
who  looked  so  calm  and  peaceful,  and  handsome  in  his  elegant 
coffin,  with  a  half-opened  rose  upon  his  breast.  Mrs.  Fordham 
had  put  it  there  at  Heloise's  request ;  but  Heloise  herself  had 
taken  no  part  in  anything,  or  even  seen  the  body.  She  had 
abandoned  the  idea  of  going  to  the  grave  and  startling  the  peo- 
ple with  her  story,  as  she  had  meant  to  do  the  previous  day. 
The  pain  in  her  head  was  too  great  to  admit  of  her  sitting  up, 
and  during  the  entire  day  she  never  once  appeared  below,  but 
lay  on  the  bed  in  her  chamber,  with  her  aching  head  buried  in 
the  pillow,  and  the  faded,  blood-stained  rose  hidden  away  in 
her  bosom.  She  heard  the  people  as  they  assembled  in  the 


24  THE  DAY  OF   THE  FUNERAL. 

house  and  yard  below,  and  knew  when  the  Schuylers  came  by 
the  suppressed  hush  among  the  crowd.  She  heard,  too,  the 
clergyman's  voice  as  he  read  the  burial  service,  and  when  they 
carried  the  body  out  she  arose  from  her  bed  and  through  the 
half-closed  shutters  watched  the  funeral  procession  as  it  moved 
up  the  road,  to  the  top  of  Schuyler  Hill,  where  the  open  grave 
was  waiting  for  all  that  was  mortal  of  Abelard  Lyle.  Heloise 
could  not  pray  then,  her  heart  was  so  hard  and  rebellious,  and 
ached  so  with  a  sense  of  actual  pain,  and  loss,  and  a  horrid  fear 
of  what  might  be  in  the  future ;  and  once  when  this  fear  got  the 
mastery  of  her  she  arose,  and  going  to  her  private  drawer,  where 
she  kept  her  hidden  treasures,  took  from  it  a  box,  in  which  she 
sought  for  and  found,  as  she  supposed,  the  instrument  which 
was  to  help  her  in  the  hour  of  need,  when  she  told  the  world 
what  she  must  ere  long  tell.  With  trembling  fingers  she  un- 
folded the  paper  and  felt  herself  grow  cold  and  faint,  when  she 
saw  that  instead  of  the  article  which  was  to  prove  her  innocent 
and  pure,  she  held  only  a  receipt  for  goods  bought  and  paid  for 
by  her  mother  in  New  York.  Search  as  she  might,  she  could 
not  find  the  document  she  sought.  That  was  gone,  how  or 
where  she  could  not  guess  until  she  remembered  having  burned 
some  waste  papers  accumulating  in  her  drawer,  only  a  few  days 
before.  She  had  it  then  and  read  it  over,  and  supposed  she 
laid  it  back  in  the  box  where  she  always  kept  it,  but  she  must 
have  put  in  its  place  the  receipt  which  was  folded  and  looked 
much  like  it,  and  burned  the  only  evidence  she  had  that  she 
was  not  the  wicked  thing  she  felt  herself  to  be  as  she  sank  upon 
the  floor  and  wished  that  she  could  die.  It  was  terrible  to  see 
such  grief  in  one  so  young,  for  Heloise,  though  well  grown  and 
tall,  was  little  more  than  fifteen,  and  her  face  when  in  repose 
was  the  face  of  a  child.  But  it  seemed  old  now,  and  gray,  and 
pinched  with  that  look  of  anguish  upon  it,  mingled  with  some- 
thing akin  to  shame,  as  she  crouched  upon  the  floor  and  whis- 
pered to  herself: 

"  What  if  mother  and  the  world  do  not  believe  me  ?  "  Then 
swift  as  thought  the  answer  came  :  "  I'll  drown  myself  in  the 
river ; "  and  titling  upright  upon  the  floor,  the  young  girl  went 


THE  DAY  OF   THE  FUNERAL.  25 

through  in  fancy  with  all  the  sickening  details  which  such  a  ca- 
tastrophe would  involve.  The  anxiety  of  the  mother,  the  alarm, 
the  search  for  her  body,  the  finding  it  at  last,  and  the  coroner's 
inquest,  where  possibly  her  secret  would  be  discovered  and  she 
be  disgraced  all  the  same. 

"  No,  no,"  she  moaned,  "  better  live  and  fight  it  out,  know- 
ing I  am  innocent,  than  carry  a  sullied  name  to  a  suicide' 
grave." 

"And  lose  your  soul,"  something  whispered  in  her  ear,  mak- 
ing her  start  with  a  new  horror  as  she  remembered  the  hereafter 
she  had  in  her  madness  almost  forgotten. 

Falling  upon  her  knees,  she  sobbed,  "Lead  me  not  into 
temptation,  but  deliver  me  from  evil." 

That  was  all  she  could  say,  but  Jesus  knew  what  she  meant, 
— knew  that  she  wanted  help,  and  He  helped  her  as  He  always 
does  when  asked  aright,  and  her  heart  ceased  to  throb  so  pain 
fully,  and  the  hard  look  left  her  face,  and  the  tears  came  to  her 
relief  as  she  said  : 

"I  know  I  am  innocent,  and  so  does  God;  and  I'll  tell 
mother  the  truth,  keeping  nothing  back."  ^ 

Heloise  had  risen  now,  and  with  trembling  hands  was  binding 
up  her  beautiful  hair  of  golden  brown,  which  Abelard  had  ad- 
mired so  much,  and  which  she,  too,  knew  was  wonderful  for  its 
brightness  and  luxuriance.  Would  she  ever  care  for  it  again  ? 
-.he  asked  herself,  as  she  put  it  away  under  a  net  where  not  even 
a  single  curl  could  find  its  way  to  neck  or  brow,  when  suddenly, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  vision,  she  saw  an  elegant  room  which  seemed 
to  be  at  Schuyler  Hill,  and  in  that  room  a  lady  of  marvellous 
beauty,  with  a  face  like  her  own,  save  that  it  was  older  and  more 
mature, — a  lady,  clad  in  satin  and  lace,  with  jewels  in  her  flow- 
ing hair  and  on  her  snowy  neck,  and  to  herself  she  said  : 

"  That's  I.     How  came  I  there  ?  " 

Then  the  mist,  if  mist  it  was,  which  had  for  a  moment  cloud- 
ed her  mind,  lifted,  and  she  was  herself  again, — Heloise  Ford- 
ham,  standing  in  her  own  humble  room  and  making  herself 
ready  for  the  meeting  with  her  mother,  and  the  confession  she 
meant  to  make  before  she  slept  again. 


26  THE  DAY  OF   THE  FUNERAL. 

I  was  at  the  funeral  and  saw  Abelard  in  his  coffin,  and 
thought  how  dreadful  it  was  to  die  so  far  from  home  and  have 
no  tears  shed  for  me,  for  there  were  none  shed  for  him. 
Everybody  looked  sorry,  and  sober,  and  shocked,  Colonel 
Schuyler  particularly  so,  and  Lady  Emily  put  her  fine  cambric 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes  when  the  rector  spoke  of  the  noble 
deed  which  never  could  be  forgotten  by  those  for  whom  it  was 
done  ;  but  she  did  not  cry,  I  know,  for  I  was  watching  her,  and 
I  wanted  to  shake  little  Godfrey,  who,  though  he  was  very 
subdued  and  quiet,  actually  nodded  in  his  high  chair  before  the 
remarks  were  over. 

It  was  a  sad  funeral  and  a  big  funeral,  but  one  void  of  genu- 
ine heartache,  save  as  one  young  heart  up-stairs  was  breaking, 
and  of  this  I  did  not  then  know. 

Although  more  than  two  years  the  junior  of  Heloise,  I  per- 
haps knew  her  better  than  any  one  else.  Intimate  friends  she 
had  not,  but  between  her  and  myself  an  acquaintance  had 
sprung  up,  born  of  our  common  love  for  flowers  and  rambles 
by  the  river  side.  We  had  exchanged  slips  of  roses  and  gera- 
niums, and  talked  over  the  gate  of  our  flower-beds,  and  once, 
when  caught  in  a  rain-storm,  she  had  taken  tea  with  us  and  de- 
lighted us  all  with  her  pretty,  ladylike  manners  and  soft,  gentle 
speech.  I  was  charmed  with  her,  and  having,  as  I  believed,  a 
secret  of  hers  in  my  possession,  I  felt  greatly  interested  in  her, 
and  when  at  the  funeral  I  missed  her  and  heard  of  the  sick 
headache  which  was  keeping  her  up-stairs,  I  had  my  own  pri- 
vate opinion  with  regard  to  the  cause  of  that  headache,  and 
with  all  the  curiosity  of  a  girl  of  thirteen,  determined  upon  see- 
ing her  and  judging  for  myself  how  a  girl  looked  who  had  lost 
her  lover.  Accordingly  I  lingered  after  the  funeral,  and  when 
the  people  were  gone  and  I  had  taken  several  turns  in  the  gar- 
den I  ventured  up  the  stairs  to  her  room  and  knocked  softly 
at  her  door. 

"  Come  in,"  was  spoken  in  a  frightened  tone,  and  I  went  in 
and  found  her  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  "her  hands 
pressed  to  her  head  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door  with  an 
expression  of  alarm. 


THE  DAY  OF   THE  FUNERAL.  27 

At  sight  of  me,  however,  they  changed  at  once,  and  with  a 
smile  she  said  : 

"  Oh,  it's  you.     I  thought  it  was  mother." 

"  No,  she  hasn't  had  time  to  come  back  yet,"  I  replied  ;  and 
then,  touched  by  the  look  of  her  white  face,  I  burst  out :  "  Oh, 
Heloise,  isn't  it  terrible,  and  he  so  young  and  handsome  ?  I  am 
so  sorry  for  you." 

"  Hush-sh,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  alarm.  "  Why  are  you 
sorry  for  me  ?  Why  should  any  one  be  more  sorry  for  me  than 
for  another  ?  " 

She  was  gazing  fixedly  at  me,  and,  impelled  by  something  I 
could  not  or  did  not  try  to  resist,  I  replied  : 

"  Because, — because  I  guess  he  was  your  beau." 

Heloise' s  eyes  were  almost  black  now  in  her  excitement,  and 
her  voice  was  husky  as  she  said : 

"  You  guess  he  was  my  beau  !  Why  do  you  guess  so  ?  What 
business  have  you  to  guess  so  ?  Tell  me,  child." 

She  seemed  many  years  my  senior  then,  and  in  obedience  to 
her  question  I  answered  : 

"  I've  seen  him  look  at  you  just  as  brother  Tom  looks  at 
Samantha  Blackmer,  and  he's  her  beau  ;  and  then  I  saw  him 
kiss  you  once  down  by  the  river,  that  time  I  came  upon  you 
suddenly,  you  remember ;  but  I  never  told.  He  was  your 
beau,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment  but  her  lips  moved  as  if 
she  were  trying  to  speak,  and  at  last  she  said : 

"No,  he  was  not  my  beau,  Ettie  (that  was  my  pet  name 
twenty  years  ago,  before  I  was  the  village  schoolmistress) — 
Ettie,  I  believe  you  like  me,  and  I  want — I  want — you — to, 
— oh,  Ettie,  if  ever  people  say  bad  things  of  me  don't  you  be- 
lieve them,  but  stand  by  me,  won't  you?" 

She  had  both  my  hands  in  hers,  and  was  looking  straight  into 
my  eyes  with  an  expression  which  half-frightened  me  out  of  my 
wits,  as  I  told  her  I  would  stand  by  her,  without,  however, 
knowing  at  all  what  she  meant.  I  was  a  little  proud  to  be 
thus  appealed  to,  and  when  the  fixed  expression  of  her  face 
gave  way  and  the  tears  began  to  roll  down  her  cheeks,  I  cried 


28  THE   CONFESSION. 

too  from  sympathy  and  tried  to  comfort  her  and  made  her  lie 
down  upon  her  bed,  and  when  she  was  more  quiet  sat  by  her 
until  I  heard  her  mother's  step  below.  Then  I  took  my  leave, 
for  I  was  afraid  of  Mrs.  Fordham,  whom  I  met  on  the  stairs, 
and  whose  face  I  fancied  looked  brighter  and  more  cheerful 
than  faces  usually  do  when  returning  from  a  grave. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    CONFESSION. 

j]ELOISE,"  Mrs.  Fordham  exclaimed,  as  she  entered 
her  daughter's  room.  "What  is  the  matter?  You 
look  as  if  you  had  been  sick  for  years.  Can  it  be  you 
loved  him  so  much  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother;  more  than  you  can  guess.  I'll  tell  you 
about  it  by  and  by  ;  to-night,  maybe,  when  I  feel  stronger.  I 
can't  talk  now." 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  how  well  everything  passed 
off  at  the  grave,  and  how  thoughtful  Col.  Schuyler  was  ?  "  Mrs. 
Fordham  continued,  and  Heloise  replied  : 

"  No,  mother,  not  a  word,  now  nor  ever.  I  can't  bear  it.  I 
almost  hate  the  Schuylers,  and  I  wish  I,  too,  was  dead." 

It  was  not  often  that  Heloise  was  thus  moved,  and  her 
mother  looked  at  her  curiously,  but  she  said  no  more  of  the 
Schuylers  or  Abelard,  and  busied  herself  with  putting  the  cot- 
tage to  rights  and  preparing  a  tempting  little  supper  for  her 
daughter.  But  Heloise  could  not  eat,  and  after  the  supper  was 
cleared  away  and  her  mother  had  taken  her  usual  seat  upon  the 
back  porch,  she  crept  to  her  side,  and  putting  her  head  in  her 
lap,  said  entreatingly  : 

"  Mother,  1  have  something  to  tell  you  which  will  surprise 
and  probably  offend  you.  1  ought  to  have  told  it  before,  but  I 
was  afraid  and  kept  putting  it  off.  It  was  wrong,  I  know,  but 
it  cannot  now  be  helped.  Abclard  and  I  were  married  !" 


THE   CONFESSION.  29 

"  You  married  to  Abelard  Lyle  ! "  Mrs.  Fordham  exclaimed, 
starting  back  as  if  a  serpent  had  stung  her. 

She  did  not  say,  "  I  am  glad  then  that  he  is  dead,"  but  she 
thought  it,  and  the  thought  must  have  communicated  itself  to 
Heloise,  for  she  lifted  up  her  head  and  looked  reproachfully  in 
her  mother's  face,  while  her  lip  quivered  in  a  grieved  kind 
of  way,  but  she  did  not  cry,  and  her  voice  was  steady  as  she 
said  : 

"Oh,  mother,  don't  speak  so  to  me,  as  if  marrying  him  was 
the  most  disgraceful  thing  I  could  do.  I  loved  him  so  much, 
and  he  loved  me.  It  was  during  the  long  voyage  when  I  saw 
so  much  of  him.  You  know  you  were  sick  most  of  the  time, 
and  that  left  me  to  him,  and  he  was  so  kind,  and  before  we 
reached  New  York  I  promised  to  be  his  wife  some  time,  and 
meant  to  tell  you." 

"Why  didn't  you,  then?" 

The  tone  was  harsh  and  unrelenting  in  which  Mrs.  Fordham 
put  this  question,  and  Heloise  flushed  a  little  and  answered, 
hurriedly : 

"It  was  wrong,  I  know,  but  you  are,  you  were, — forgive  me, 
mother, — you  are  prouder,  more  ambitious  than  I  am.  You 
think  I  might  marry  a  nobleman,  and  I  shrank  from  telling 
you  for  fear  you  would  separate  us  and  that  time  you  went  to 
Hoboken  and  stayed  a  week  with  your  friend,  Abelard  persuad- 
ed me  to  be  married.  We  could  keep  it  a  secret,  he  said,  until 
he  had  something  beforehand  and  was  in  a  better  position." 

"Umph!  As  if  he  could  rise  to  a  better  position.  Child, 
with  your  face  and  manner  you  might  be  the  first  lady  in  the 
land,  instead  of  throwing  yourself  away  on  a  poor  carpenter." 

Mrs.  Fordham  spoke  very  bitterly,  and  her  eyes  had  in  them 
a  hard,  angry  look,  which  roused  all  the  temper  there  was  in 
the  young  girl,  who  answered,  hotly  : 

"  Abelard' s  profession  was  an  honorable  one.  Joseph  was  a 
carpenter.  Abelard  was  not  to  blame  for  being  poor  ;  one  of 
his  sisteis  married  into  as  good  a  family  as  there  is  in  Scotland, 
and  had  lie  lived  he  would  have  risen  above  poverty  and  ob- 
scurity. America  has  many  avenues  for  such  as  he,  and  I 


30  THE    CONFESSION. 

should  one  day  have  been  so  proud  of  him.  Oh,  my  darling, 
my  husband ! " 

•  The  temper  was  all  gone  now,  and  the  girl's  voice  was  like 
a  wailing  sob  as  she  uttered  the  name,  "  My  husband,"  but  it 
did  not  touch  the  mother's  heart  or  make  her  one  whit  sorry  for 
her  child. 

"  Where  was  it  ?  I  mean  who  married  you  ?  "  she  asked ; 
and  Heloise  replied : 

"A  Mr.  Calvert,  in  New  York." 

"A  dissenter?"  was  the  next  question;  and  Heloise  an- 
swered : 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so ;  Abelard  did  not  care  who  it  was,  so  we 
were  married,  and  he  looked  in  the  Directory  and  found  the 
name  of  the  Rev.  Charles  Calvert,  and  persuaded  me  to  go 
there.  I  think  he  was  not  preaching  anywhere,  but  he  could 
marry  us  the  same,  and  he  did." 

"  Without  any  reference  or  asking  you  any  questions  ?  "  Mrs 
Fordham  said,  and  Heloise  hesitated  a  little. 

She  did  not  like  to  tell  that  Abelard  had  represented  her  as 
alone  in  this  country,  and  had  given  that  as  a  reason  for  marry- 
ing so  young ;  so  she  evaded  the  question,  and  answered : 

"The  minister  was  satisfied,  only  he  said  I  seemed  like  a 
child ;  and  one  of  the  ladies  present  said  so,  too,  and  asked 
how  old  I  was.  Abelard  told  her,  '  older  than  I  looked,'  and 
that  was  all  they  said." 

Heloise  paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  : 

"  I  have  heard  since  that  Mr.  Calvert  was  a  half  brother  of 
Mrs.  Schuyler,  who  was  in  the  room  when  we  were  married, 
and  had  little  Godfrey  with  her." 

"Mrs.  Schuyler  saw  you  married ! "  Mrs.  Fordham  ex- 
claimed. "The  matter  grows  worse  and  worse.  Now  that 
Abelard  is  dead,  I  hoped  it  might  not  be  known.  You  have 
seen  her  since, — do  you  think  she  recognized  you  ?" 

"  I  know  she  did  not.  She  could  not  have  seen  me  dis- 
tinctly that  night  in  New  York.  She  was  sick,  I  think  ;  at 
all  events,  she  lay  upon  a  couch,  and  did  not  get  up  at  all. 
1  know  it  was  Mrs.  Schuyler,  because  the  other  lady,  Mrs.  Cal- 


THE   CONFESSION.  31 

vert,  called  her  Emily,  and  the  little  boy  told  Abelard  his  name 
was  Godfrey  Schuyler." 

"  Have  you  a  certificate  of  the  marriage  ?  "  was  Mrs.  Ford- 
ham's  next  question,  and  her  daughter  replied  : 

"  I  did  have,  and  kept  it  in  a  box  Abelard  gave  me,  but  I've 
lost  it.  I  had  it  out  the  other  day  with  some  other  papers,  and 
thought  I  put  it  back,  but  must  have  burned  it  and  substituted 
for  it  a  receipt  which  looked  like  it.  Oh,  mother  !  will  people 
think  I  never  was  married  at  all,  when  they  know  it  ?" 

The  girl  was  crouching  at  her  mother's  feet  in  such  an  agony 
of  shame  and  fear  that  at  first  she  hardly  heard  what  her  mother 
was  saying  about  there  being  no  need  for  people  to  know  of  the 
marriage. 

"  Godfrey  is  too  young  to  remember  it,  or  he  would  have 
recognized  Abelard,"  Mrs.  Fordham  said ;  "  and  it  is  not  likely 
the  two  ladies  thought  enough  of  you  to  keep  you  in  mind  a 
week.  There  is  nothing  but  Abelard' s  peculiar  name  to  make 
any  impression.  They  might  remember  that." 

"  No,  mother."  And  Heloise  lifted  her  head  quickly.  "  His 
first  name  was  James,  and  as  he  liked  that  the  best,  he  called 
himself 'James  A.  Lyle,'  and  it  was  so  written  in  the  certificate." 

"  Then  it  never  need  be  known  that  you  made  this  low  mar- 
riage ! "  Mrs.  Fordham  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  intense 
relief. 

"  Mother  !  " — and  starting  up  from  her  crouching  posture, 
Heloise's  eyes  flashed  indignantly  as  she  said, — "  do  you  think 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  love  for  Abelard,  or  that  I  will  consent  to 
act  a  lie  all  my  life,  even  if  I  could  do  so  without  detection, 
which  I  cannot,  for,  mother,  I  have  not  told  you  all ;  the  dread- 
ful part  is  to  come.  I — I — oh  !  I  can't  speak  it.  You  must 
know  what  I  mean." 

Heloise  was  at  her  mother's  feet  again,  her  hands  clasped 
together  nervously,  and  her  breath  coming  in  quick,  panting 
gasps,  as  she  whispered  the  dreadful  thing  she  had  to  tell,  and 
then  fell  forward  on  her  face,  fainting  entirely  away. 

For  an  instant  Mrs.  Fordham  sat  like  one  stunned  by  a  heavy 
blow,  powerless  to  move  or  speak ;  but  her  ever-active,  far-see 


32  THE    CONFESSION. 

ing  mind  was  busy,  and  before  she  stooped  to  raise  her  uncon- 
scious daughter,  she  had  come  to  a  decision. 

All  her  hopes  for  the  future  should  not  be  thus  blasted.  H>  - 
daughter  should  yet  ride  in  the  high  places  of  the  land,  and 
should  never  be  known  to  the  world  as  the  widow  of  a  carpenter. 
She  repeated  the  last  words  sneeringly,  and  then  lifting  up  her 
child  bore  her  to  the  window,  where  the  cool  evening  air  could 
blow  upon  her.  It  was  not  long  ere  Heloise  came  back  to  con- 
sciousness, but  her  face  still  wore  the  same  white,  frightened  lor  * 
it  had  put  on  when  she  whispered  her  secret  Ere  long,  however, 
the  pallid  hue  changed  to  a  scarlet  flush  as  she  listened  to  her 
mother's  plan,  and  her  fixed  purpose  to  carry  it  out.  They 
were  to  leave  Hampstead  at  once  and  go  back  to  England, 
where  in  London  they  wtmld  for  a  time  live  in  obscurity,  un- 
known to  any  one  save  those  with  whom  they  were  compelled 
to  come  in  contact. 

"  Nobody  here  will  believe  in  your  marriage,"  she  said,  as 
she  saw  Heloise  about  to  speak,  and  guessed  that  it  was  to 
oppose  her.  "  Your  certificate  is  lost." 

"  Yes,  but  Mr.  Calvert  must  have  a  record  ;  he  would  re- 
member," Heloise  said,  faintly;  and  her  mother  replied:  "Pos- 
sibly ;  but  I  do  not  care  to  have  him  remember.  I  do  not  wish 
your  marriage  known,  and  it  shall  not  be.  Hear  me,  Heloise, 
it  shall  not  be,  I  say." 

"  But  I  cannot  live  a  lie,"  the  poor  girl  moaned,  as  she 
rocked  to  and  fro,  with  her  head  bent  down,  and  her  whole  at- 
titude one  of  great  mental  distress. 

"  You  forget  that  you  have  been  living  a  lie  these  three 
months  past.  It  is  rather  late  now  to  make  it  a  matter  of  con- 
science, and  I  shall  not  listen  to  such  foolishness.  So  far  as 
this  you  may  be  truthful.  In  England  you  may  take  his  name. 
Lyle  is  better  than  Fordham,  and  for  a  time  you  must  of  course 
pass  for  a  married  woman  ;  after  that, — I  have  not  decided." 

There  was  a  hard,  implacable  expression  in  Mrs.  Fordham's 
face  as  she  said  this,  and  she  looked  at  that  moment  as  if  capa- 
ble of  almost  anything  which  would  promote  her  own  ends. 
Though  kind  and  affectionate  in  the  main  she  had  always  kept 


THE    CONFESSION.  33 

her  daughter  in  a  state  of  rigid  obedience,  if  not  subjection  to 
her  will,  and  she  had  no  idea  of  being  thwarted  now.  Heloise, 
who  understood  her  so  well  and  knew  how  useless  it  was  to 
contend  with  so  strong  and  fierce  a  spirit,  felt  herself  powerless 
to  oppose  anything,  and  thus  gave  a  tacit  consent  at  least  to  her 
mother's  plans.  For  two  or  three  days,  however,  she  kept  her 
room,  and  did  not  go  down  when  Mrs.  Schuyler  came  with  little 
Godfrey,  and  asked  for  more  of  the  "  lovely  roses." 

There  was  nothing  said  of  Abelard.  Lady  Emily  had  forgot- 
ten him,  and  had  no  thought  or  care  for  the  young  girl  watching 
her  from  the  window  as  she  flitted  about  the  rose-bush,  in  her 
dainty  white  morning  dress,  with  its  lace  and  fluted  ruffles.  She 
was  not  pretty  at  all,  but  her  movements  were  very  graceful, 
and  she  made  a  pleasant  picture  in  the  little  yard,  and  Heloise 
half  envied  her  as  she  thought  how  blessed  she  was  in  home, 
and  husband,  and  children  she  was  not  ashamed  to  own.  She 
was  waiting  now,  it  seemed,  for  the  colonel,  who  was  to  take 
her  for  a  drive,  and  who  soon  came  down  the  road,  and  stop- 
ping before  the  gate  asked  Mrs.  Fordham  to  come  to  him  for  a 
moment. 

He  intended  raising  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  Abelard 
Lyle,  he  said,  and  he  would  like  to  inquire  his  age,  place  of 
birth,  and  if  he  had  another  name  than  Abelard.  Mrs.  Ford- 
ham  was  sorry  she  could  not  give  the  desired  information.  In- 
deed, people  were  laboring  under  a  misapprehension  with  re- 
gard to  herself  and  the  young  man.  He  was  a  mere  ship  ac- 
quaintance, but  she  believed  he  had  a  mother  and  possibly  a 
sister.  She  had  never  liked  this  country  much,  and  was  intend- 
ing to  return  to  England  very  soon,  where  she  would  find  his 
friends  or  communicate  with  them  in  some  way.  Colonel 
Schuyler  was  very  kind  to  be  so  much  interested  in  the  young 
man.  She  had  liked  him,  too,  so  far  as  she  knew  him,  but  she 
had  only  done  for  him  what  she  would  do  for  any  of  her  country- 
men under  similar  circumstances. 

Mrs.  Fordham  spoke  loftily  and  decidedly,  and  Colonel 
Schuyler  looked  at  her  a  little  curiously  as  he  said  : 

"Ah,  indeed  !  I  am  sorry  you  don't  know  his  age,  though 
2* 


34  THE   CONFESSION. 

it  does  not  matter  much.  I  wish  you  good-morning, 
madam." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  was  turning  away,  when  from  the  upper 
window  there  came  a  clear,  ringing  voice,  which  said : 

"  Colonel  Schuyler,  I  can  tell  you  what  you  wish  to  know. 
He  was  born  in  Alnwick,  England  ;  he  was  twenty-three  last 
March,  and  his  first  name  was  James." 

"  Thanks,"  and  Colonel  Schuyler  started  in  surprise,  both  at 
the  voice  and  the  beautiful  young  face,  which  looked  so  eagerly 
at  him  for  an  instant  and  then  was  withdrawn  from  sight. 

"  That  was  a  most  remarkable  face,  Emily.  Do  you  know 
who  the  young  girl  is?"  Colonel  Schuyler  asked,  as  he  drove 
off  with  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Schuyler  believed  it  was  the  daughter  of  that  woman, 
and  she  guessed  she  was  rather  pretty,  though  she  did  not 
notice  her  particularly. 

"  That  class  of  people  do  sometimes  produce  very  fine  com- 
plexions and  tolerably  good  features." 

That  was  the  lady's  reply,  and  then  she  talked  of  something 
else,  and  forgot  Heloise  entirely.  But  that  night,  strangely 
enough,  the  colonel  dreamed  of  that  window  in  the  cottage 
round  which  a  honeysuckle  was  trained,  and  of  a  pale,  sweet 
face  framed  in  the  net-work  of  green,  and  the  clear,  hazel  eyes, 
which  for  a  moment  had  looked  at  him.  And,  when  he  woke, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  interest  in  the  young  girl,  and 
resolved  to  make  some  inquiries  concerning  her.  But  the  next 
day  he  went  down  to  New  York  to  order  the  monument  for 
Abelard's  grave;  and  when,  after  an  absence  of  two  weeks,  he 
returned  to  Hampstead,  the  cottage  was  shut  up,  and  he 
learned  that  Mrs.  Fordham  had  gone  to  England  and  taken  her 
daughter  with  her. 

Remembering  what  Mrs.  Fordham  had  said  to  him  when  he 
went  to  make  some  inquiries  concerning  Abelard  Lyle,  he  was 
not  as  much  surprised  as  the  villagers  had  been  when  they  heard 
of  Mrs.  Fordham's  intention  to  give  up  her  pretty  cottage  and 
return  to  her  friends.  She  laid  great  stress  upon  her  friends, 
and  hinted  broadly  that  the  people  of  Hampstead  were  not  to 


THE    CONFESSION.  35 

her  taste.  Nobody  cared  especially,  though  many  wondered  at 
her  fickleness  in  changing  her  residence  so  soon.  I  was  sorry, 
for  I  liked  Heloise  and  hated  to  part  with  her.  Remembering 
what  she  had  said  to  me  of  the  dreadful  thing  which  might  hap- 
pen to  her,  and  to  which  my  championship  was  pledged,  I  felt 
disappointed  not  to  have  a  chance  of  proving  myself  her  friend, 
and  I  told  her  so  when  I  went  to  say  good-by,  and  found  her 
in  the  little  room  where  I  had  seen  her  on  the  day  of  the 
funeral.  Her  eyes  were  almost  black,  and  there  was  a  peculiar 
expression  in  them  as  she  regarded  me  fixedly  for  a  moment 
without  speaking. 

"  Ettie,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  deceived  you  the  other  day.  I 
told  you  Abelard  was  not  my  beau,  and  that — that  was  not  quite 
the  truth,  for  though  he  was  not  what  you  meant,  he  was — ,  I 
liked  him,  oh  so  much,  and  he  liked  me,  and — and — oh,  Ettie, 
I  am  very,  very  miserable." 

She  was  sobbing  piteously,  and  I  could  only  smooth  her  hair 
by  way  of  comfort  as  I  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"  Ettie,"  she  began  again,  when  she  had  dried  her  eyes, 
"  they  say  Colonel  Schuyler  is  fixing  up  the  grave  and  will  put 
a  grand  monument  there.  I  am  thankful  to  him  for  that,  but 
after  a  time  he  will  forget  all  about  it,  and  grass  and  weeds  will 
grow  where  only  flowers  should  be.  Ettie,  you  like  me,  I 
think,  and  will  you,  for  my  sake,  keep  his  grave  up  nice  and 
pretty,  and  put  fresh  flowers  there  in  the  summer-time  ?  Put 
them  in  this  vase  ;  I  give  it  to  you  for  that ;  he  bought  it  for 
me  in  New  York." 

She  placed  in  my  hand  a  small  vase  of  creamy  white,  with  a 
band  of  gold  around  it,  and  on  its  side  a  bunch  of  blue  forget- 
me-nots,  in  the  centre  of  which  were  two  hearts  transfixed  with 
a  golden  arrow. 

"  It  will  make  me  happy  to  know  this  is  on  his  grave  when  I 
am  so  far  away,"  she  added  ;  "and,  Ettie,  don't  tell  any  one, 
but  last  night,  when  everybody  was  asleep,  I  went  there  and 
planted  a  little  rose-bush  like  that  tree  in  the  garden,  you  know. 
I  am  sure  it  will  live,  for  it  had  a  good  root,  and  I  want  you  to 
water  it  and  nurse  it  to  life,  and  when  they  put  up  the 


36  EDITH  LYLE. 

stone  don't  let  them  trample  it  down.  Will  you  do  this  for 
me  ?  " 

I  promised  that  I  would,  and  she  went  on  : 

"  Some  time  when  I  am  older  and  have  money  I  shall  come 
back  to  see  his  grave.  You'll  have  it  nice  for  me,  won't 
you  ?  " 

I  promised  her  again,  and  then,  taking  the  scissors  from  the 
table,  she  cut  from  the  back  of  her  head  one  of  her  long,  bright 
curls,  and  laying  it  in  my  hands  bade  me  keep  it  as  a  remem- 
brance of  her. 

"  Mother  is  coming  and  you  must  go,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
shiver,  as  we  heard  Mrs.  Fordham's  voice  below,  and  with  a 
hurried  kiss  and  the  whispered  words,  "  Remember  about  the 
grave,  good-by,  I  shall  see  you  again  some  time,  and  possibly 
write  to  you,"  she  pushed  me  toward  the  door,  and  when  1  saw 
her  again  she  was  waving  her  hand  to  me  from  the  window  of 
the  car  which  took  her  away  from  Hampstead. 


CHAPTER  V. 

EDITH    LYLE. 

jjT  was  a  dark,  dreary,  January  afternoon,  and  the 
dreariness  and  darkness  were  increased  by  the  dense 
fog  which  since  noon  had  settled  like  a  pall  over  the 
great  city  of  London,  and  by  a  pitiless  rain,  which,  mixing 
with  melting  snow,  ran  in  muddy  puddles  down  the  gutters 
and  in  dirty  streams  down  the  windows  of  the  third  floor  back 
room  of  the  lodging  in  Dorset  Street,  where  a  very  young 
girl  was  lying.  Her  face  was  whiter  than  the  pillow  against 
which  it  lay,  and  in  the  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  utter  helpless- 
ness, as  if  all  life,  and  hope,  and  energy  had  been  crushed  out, 
and  there  was  nothing  left  but  apathy  and  utter  indifference  to 
the  future.  And  yet  this  was  the  same  face  which  Colonel 
Schuyler  had  seen  framed  in  a  net-work  of  green,  and  of  whose 
bright  beauty  he  had  dreamed,  with  his  lady  wife  beside  him  : 


EDITH  LYLE.  37 

but  he  would  not  have  known  it  now.  Months  of  mental 
anguish  and  continual  combat  with  the  mother's  stronger  nature, 
added  to  days  of  intense  suffering,  and  homesickness,  and  long- 
ing for  the  dead  in  that  far-off  grave  in  Hampstead,  had  left 
their  marks  on  the  young  girl,  until  now  that  the  crisis  was  past 
she  lay  quiet  and  passive  in  her  mother's  hands  and  seemed  to 
assent  to  whatever  the  mother  proposed. 

That  estimable  woman  had  chosen  lodgings  in  Dorset  Street, 
knowing  she  would  be  safe  there  from  any  one  whom  her 
daughter  might  meet  in  the  future.  The  name  Heloise  had 
been  dropped,  and  she  was  Edith  Lyle  now,  a  young  widow, 
whose  husband  had  died  soon  after  her  marriage,  and  so  no  sus- 
picions were  excited  and  no  comments  made  by  the  few  who 
occasionally  saw  her  stealing  up  or  down  the  stairs  which  led  to 
her  apartment.  Only  the  housemaid,  Mary  Stover,  was  inter- 
ested in  her,  or  paid  much  heed  to  her  extreme  youth  and 
beauty.  And  even  Mary  but  seldom  came  in  contact  with  her, 
so  that  Edith  hardly  knew  of  her  existence,  or  how  much  she 
was  in  the  serving  woman's  thoughts.  Since  the  birth  of  her 
baby,  a  wee  little  creature,  with  masses  of  golden  hair  and  a 
look  in  its  blue  eyes  of  the  dead,  Edith  had  scarcely  thought 
of  anything,  but  had  lain  with  the  child  held  closely  to  her 
bosom,  as  if  fearful  of  losing  it.  Baby  was  now  four  weeks 
old,  and  the  impatient  Mrs.  Fordham  could  wait  no  longer,  and 
on  the  dreary  day  of  which  I  write  she  sat  by  her  daughter's 
side  and  said  to  her,  in  the  tone  which  Edith  had  never  yet  had 
courage  to  withstand  : 

"  Edith,  you  are  strong  enough  now  to  leave  this  wretched 
%place.  Baby  will  be  four  weeks  old  to-morrow,  and  I  have 
everything  arranged.  I  have  made  particular  inquiries  about 

the Street  Foundling  Hospital,  and  learned  that  in  no  other 

place  *a.fe  the  children  so  well  cared  for.  The  matron  and 
nurses  are  very  kind,  and  the  little  ones  healthy  and  happy,  and 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  are  adopted  by  good  families  and  grow 
up  respectable  men  and  women." 

"  But,  mother,"  Edith  gasped,  while  her  hold  tightened  on 
the  little  pink  fingers  which  lay  on  her  neck,  "  I  cannot  let  her 


38  EDITH  LYLE. 

go.  She  is  mine, — truly,  lawfully  mine, — and  you  shall  not 
take  her  from  me." 

"'Hush,  child,  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  about," 
came  impatiently  from  Mrs.  Fordham's  lips.  "I  tell  you  we 
cannot  be  hampered  with  a  child,  and  it  shall  be  as  I  say.  I 
know  it  will  be  well  cared  for.  I  shall  keep  sight  of  her,  and 
see  that  no  harm  befalls  her,  and  if  you  ever  should  wish 
to  claim  it,  that  mark  on  its  bosom  is  sufficient  \o  identify 
it." 

At  the  mention  of  the  peculiar  birth-mark  on  her  child,  Edith 
moaned  faintly,  and  thought  of  the  white  rose  with  the  blood 
stain  in  the  centre,  and  the  awful  day  when  it  was  brought  back 
to  her,  and  she  had  laid  it  next  her  breaking  heart.  'There  was 
a  blood-red  spot  over  baby's  heart,  and  Edith  knew  how  it  came 
there,  and  shuddered  and  grew  sick  as  she  remembered  it,  and 
held  tighter  to  the  little  one  whom  her  mother  would  wrest  from 
her.  At  last,  wearied  with  the  controversy  which  was  exciting 
her  daughter  so  much,  Mrs.  Fordham  seemed  to  give  up  the 
contest,  but  it  was  only  seeming.  She  was  one  who  never  gave 
up,  and  what  she  could  not  accomplish  by  fair  means  she  was 
not  too  scrupulous  to  attain  by  foul  Baby  must  go.  It  was 
something  in  her  way,  and  must  be  sacrificed;  so,  when  the 
hour  came  round  for  her  daughter's  medicine,  she  mixed  with  it 
one  of  the  sedative  powders  which  Edith  had  taken  for  wakeful- 
ness  when  her  illness  was  at  the  worst.  As  it  had  been  suc- 
cessful then  so  it  was  now,  and  she  ere  long  fell  into  a  heavy 
sleep,  which  Mrs.  Fordham  knew  from  experience  would  last 
for  several  hours.  This  was  her  time  for  action,  and  going  to 
the  bed  she  stooped  to  take  the  child  from  the  arms  which  held, 
it  so  fast.  Even  in  her  sleep  Edith  must  have  had  a  dim  con- 
sciousness of  the  threatened  danger,  for  she  held  firmly  to  the 
little  one,  while  her  white  lips  moaned : 

"  No,  she  is  mine  ;  you  cannot  have  her." 

But  for  this  Mrs.  Fordham  did  not  hesitate,  and  with  a  firm 
hand  she  carefully  unclasped  the  clinging  arms  and  lifted  the 
child  from  the  bed. 

Had  it  been  a  gentleman's  offspring,  and  Edith  the  mistress 


EDITH  LYLE.  39 

of  some  luxurious  home,  she  might  have  felt  some  love  and 
tenderness  for  the  little  creature,  which,  roused  from  its  sleep, 
opened  its  blue  eyes  and  looked  into  her  face.  But  it  was 
lowly  born,  a  descendant  of  the  Lyles,  who  lived  in  obscurity 
among  the  heather  hiils  of  Alnvvick,  and  she  steeled  her  heart 
against  it,  and  never  faltered  in  her  purpose,  even  when  the 
pretty  lips  parted  and  gave  forth  a  sound,  which  made  Edith 
start  and  half  turn  upon  her  pillow  as  if  about  to  waken.  But 
the  sedative  was  good,  and  the  young  girl  slept  on,  while  her 
mother  robed  the  little  one  in  its  best  attire,  and  wrote  upon  a 
bit  of  paper  which  she  pinned  upon  its  bosom  : 

"  Her  name  is  Heloise,  and  she  is  not  a  child  of  shame,  but 
of  an  imprudent  marriage,  and  inherits  from  her  mother,  who  is 
a  lady,  some  of  the  best  blood  in  England." 

"  That  will  save  her  from  a  life  of  servitude  ;  the  high  bloods 
always  take  such  children  as  these,"  she  said,  "  and  it  will  be 
much  better  so  than  a  drag  on  us." 

Ten  minutes  later  and  she  stole  softly  down  the  stairs,  bear- 
ing under  her  cloak  a  bundle  which,  when  she  retraced  her 
steps,  was  not  with  her.  But  it  was  safe  from  the  chill  air  of 

the  night,  for  she  had  rung  the  bell  of Street  Hospital, 

and  depositing  her  burden  on  the  steps  had  retreated  swiftly 
behind  a  clump  of  shrubbery  until  she  saw  the  door  opened  and 
the  child  received  into  the  warmth  and  light  within.  The  rain 
had  ceased  and  the  fog  had  cleared  away  with  the  going  down 
of  the  sun,  but  no  one  could  have  recognized  her  in  the  dim 
starlight,  with  the  hood  of  her  water-proof  drawn  closely  over 
her  head,  and  when  she  reached  the  house  in  Dorset  Street  she 
felt  as  if  cut  loose  from  everything  which  could  in  any  way  in- 
terfere with  her  ambitious  projects. 

Edith  had  slept  soundly,  and  when  at  last  her  mother  came 
and  stood  beside  the  bed  she  lay  in  the  same  deep  slumber, 
with  a  bright  flush  on  her  cheeks  and  her  arm  still  stretched 
over  the  spot  where  but  an  hour  ago  a  little  pink-and-white 
baby  lay.  It  was  gone  now,  but  she  did  not  know  it,  or  dream 
of  the  anguish  in  store  for  her  When  she  should  rouse  from  the 
sleep  which  lasted  until  near  midnight.  Then  with  a  sudden 


4o  EDITH  LYLE. 

start  and  sense  of  danger  she  woke,  and  sitting  up  in  bed  felt 
for  her  child  under  the  sheet, — on  the  pillow, — under  the 
pillow, — on  the  counterpane, — everywhere,  but  all  in  vain. 
Baby  was  gone,  and  in  a  voice  husky  with  fright  and  terror  she 
called  to  the  figure  sitting  so  motionless  by  the  fire,  "  Mother, 
mother,  where  is  baby  ?  Is  she  in  your  lap,  mother  ?  "  and, 
alarmed  at  Mrs.  Fordham's  ominous  silence,  Edith  sprang  to 
her  side,  and  with  a  sensation  as  if  her  heart  was  bursting  from 
her  throat,  gasped  out : 

"  Mother,  tell  me ; — what  have  you  done  with  my  child  ?  " 

And  Mrs.  Fordham  did  tell  her,  while  Edith  listened  like 
one  paralyzed  beyond  the  power  to  move.  Speak  she  could 
not  at  first,  for  a  horrible  suffocating  sensation  in  her  throat ; 
but  her  face  was  deadly  pale  and  her  lips  quivered,  while  the 
fury  of  a  tigress  when  bereft  of  its  young  glared  from  her  eyes. 
At  last  she  found  her  voice,  and  the  words  rang  through  the 
room  with  terrible  distinctness. 

"  Mother,  may  God's  curse  fall  on  you,  if  a  hair  of  baby's 
head  is  harmed,  and  if,  when  I  am  strong  and  well,  and  able  to 
cope  with  you,  I  fail  to  find  my  darling  may  He  turn  every 
happiness  I  ever  hope  to  Know  into  sorrow,  and  blight  the 
dearest  earthly  wish  I  may  ever  have  again." 

Then  she  fell  fainting  at  the  feet  of  her  mother,  who,  if  not 
moved  by  the  denunciation  against  herself,  was  alarmed  at  the 
deathlike  unconsciousness  which  lasted  so  long.  But  youth  and 
health  can  endure  much  and  live,  and  Edith  came  back  to  life 
and  sense  again,  but  lay  utterly  prostrate  and  helpless,  with  a 
choking  lump  in  her  throat  which  prevented  her  from  speaking" 
above  the  faintest  whisper.  To  move  her  that  day  to  other  and 
better  quarters  was  impossible,  nor  did  Mrs.  Fordham  care 
particularly  to  do  it.  No  one  there  would  know  of  the  child's 
absence,  for  no  one  ever  came  into  their  room  except  Mary- 
Stover,  who  was  always  quiet  and  respectful,  and  who  on  this 
day  when  she  brought  up  warm  water  for  the  tea,  never  spoke 
or  seemed  to  notice  anything. 

Next  morning  Edith  was  better,  and  when  Mary  came  with 
the  breakfast  she  was  bidden  to  tell  her  mistress  that  Mrs. 


•    > 

THE  BEGINNING   OF  A   NEW  LIFE.  41 

Fordham  was  going  away  at  once,  but  would  pay  the  month's 
rent  just  the  same. 

"  Very  well,  ma'am.  I'll  tell  her  when  she  comes  in.  She's 
out  marketin'  now,"  was  the  girl's  reply  as  she  left  the  room; 
and  when  Mrs.  Jones,  the  owner  of  the  house,  returned,  her 
late  lodgers  were  gone,  and  Mary  handed  her  the  rent  for  the 
•whole  month,  as  Mrs.  Fordham  had  bidden  her  to  do. 

Mrs.  Jones  was  surprised  at  the  sudden  departure  of  people 
of  whom  she  had  been  a  little  proud,  inasmuch  as  they  were 
above  the  class  which  usually  stopped  with  her,  but  the  money 
for  the  whole  month  and  the  certainty  that  she  knew  of  other 
lodgers  to  take  the  rooms,  kept  her  quiet,  and  she  merely  said  : 

"  They  were  in  a  mighty  hurry  to  be  off.  Do  you  know 
where  they  are  gone  ?  " 

Mary  did  not.  A  handsome  carriage  had  come  for  them,  and 
madam  almost  carried  the  young  lady  to  it,  she  said,  adding  : 

"  That  was  a  very  pretty  lass,  with  the  sweetest  face  I  ever 
saw." 

To  this  Mrs.  Jones  assented,  and  as  just  then  there  was  a 
ring,  and  people  were  announced  looking  for  rooms,  her  late 
tenants  passed  as  completely  from  her  mind  as  they  passed 
from  her  surroundings  to  a  new  life  in  a  pleasanter  part  of 
London. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE    BEGINNING    OF    A    NEW    LIFE. 

|HE  shock  of  finding  her  baby  gone,  together  with  the 
removal  from  Dorset  Street,  in  her  weak  state  brought 
on  another  faint ;  and  when  the  carriage  stopped 
bciore  the  house  in  the  vicinity  of  Belgrave  Square,  Edith 
lay  unconscious  in  the  arms  of  her  mother,  who  carried 
her  up  the  steps  and  into  the  large  airy  room,  where  for  a  time 
they  were  to  stay  until  she  had  decided  upon  her  future  course, 
and  her  daughter's  health  was  restored.  In  a  few  weeks  at 
most  they  should  move  again,  Mrs.  Fordham  thought,  but  in 


42  THE  BEGINNING   OF  A   NEW  LIFE. 

this  she  was  mistaken.  Edith  did  not  rally ;  the  fainting  fit  was 
succeeded  by  a  low  nervous  fever,  which  lasted  for  so  long  that 
the  hedge  roses  were  in  blossom,  and  the  breath  of  early  sum- 
mer was  stealing  in  at  her  window  when  she  was  at  last  able  to 
walk  across  the  floor. 

"  Now,  mother,"  she  said  one  morning,  when  for  the  first 
time  in  months  she  was  dressed  and  sitting  up.  "Now,  you 
must  go  for  baby ;  go  to-day, — will  you, — or  shall  I  send  some 
one  else  ?  " 

She  spoke  decidedly,  and  Mrs.  Fordham,  who  felt  that  there 
was  a  change  in  her  daughter,  and  that  henceforth  their  rela- 
tions to  each  other  must  be  different  from  what  they  had  here- 
tofore been,  did  not  oppose  her,  but  answered,  readily : 

"  I  will  go  myself; "  and  an  hour  later  she  stood  again  at  the 

door  of Street  Foundling  Hospital.  She  was  a  clergyman's 

widow,  she  said,  and  had  come  to  make  inquiries  concerning  a 
child  named  Heloise,  which  was  left  there  some  time  in  January. 
Could  they  tell  her  anything  about  it  ? 

They  could  tell  her,  and  they  did,  and  with  a  throbbing  of 
the  heart  and  a  relieved  expression  on  her  face,  she  started 
home,  where  Edith  was  waiting  for  her. 

"  Where  is  it,  mother  ?  "  was  the  question  asked  eagerly. 

"  Edith,  baby  is  dead.  It  only  lived  three  weeks,  they  told 
me.  It  was  born,  it  seems,  with  some  affection  of  the  heart, 
which,  under  any  circumstances,  would  have  ended  its  life  in  a 
short  time,  the  physician  said.  It  had  every  possible  care,  and 
died  with  little  or  no  pain.  I  was  particular  to  inquire  about 
that,  as  I  knew  you  would  wish  to  know.  There,  there,  my 
child,  don't  take  it  so  hard,"  and  Mrs.  Fordham  laid  her  hand 
on  the  bowed  head  of  the  sorrowing  girl,  who  was  weeping 
passionately.  "  It  was  wrong  perhaps  to  take  it  from  you,  and 
I  am  sorry  now.^I  did  it.  I  thought  then  it  was  for  the  best, 
for  a  baby  would  be  in  our  way.  Forgive  me,  Edith,  and  let 
us  bury  the  past  forever." 

She  stooped  to  kiss  her  daughter,  in  whose  mind  there  was  no 
shadow  of  doubt  that  what  her  mother  had  told  her  was  true. 
Her  baby  was  dead,  and  though  she  mourned  for  it  truly  she 


THE  BEGINNING    OF  A   NE IV  LIFE.  43 

knew  that  it  was  far  better  off  in  heaven  than  in  that  hospital, 
with  only  strangers  to  care  for  it ;  and  gradually,  as  the  days 
went  by  and  she  felt  her  strength  and  health  coming  back 
again,  the  sense  of  loss  and  pain  which  at  first  had  weighed  so 
heavily  upon  her,  began  to  give  way,  and  more  than  one  of  the 
lodgers  in  the  house  noticed  and  commented  upon  the  great 
beauty  of  the  young  girl,  whom  they  sometimes  met  upon  the 
stairs  or  saw  sitting  by  her  window.  They  knew  the  grave 
woman  dressed  in  widow's  weeds  was  Mrs.  Fordham,  and  as 
the  young  girl  was  her  daughter  they  naturally  supposed  her  to 
be  Miss  Fordham,  a  mistake  which  the  mother  took  no  pains  to 
rectify ;  while  Edith,  who  had  suffered  so  much,  began  to  feel 
an  utter  inability  to  oppose  her  own  will  to  that  of  her  mother, 
and  when  the  latter  said  to  her,  "  It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to 
explain  to  others  that  your  name  is  not  Fordham,"  she  pas- 
sively acquiesced  :  and  thus  none  of  the  lodgers  ever  heard  the 
name  of  Lyle,  or  dreamed  of  that  grave  across  the  sea  at  Schuy- 
ler  Hill,  or  the  dreary  room  in  Dorset  Street,  and  the  scenes 
enacted  there.  All  these  were  buried  in  the  past,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  the  way  of  Mrs.  Fordham' s  plans,  except, 
indeed,  the  means  to  carry  them  out. 

Once  the  mother  had  hoped  much  from  her  daughter's  voice, 
which  was  a  fine  contralto  of  great  power  and  compass ;  but 
that  hope  was  gone,  for  on  the  dreadful  day  when,  with  the 
fury  of  a  tigress,  Edith  had  invoked  Heaven's  curse  upon  her 
mother  if  so  much  as  a  hair  of  baby's  head  was  harmed,  it 
seemed  as  if  a  hand  of  iron  had  clutched  her  throat  with  a  re- 
morseless grasp,  which  had  for  a  time  deprived  her  of  her 
powers  of  utterance,  except  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  At  intervals, 
even  now,  she  felt  the  grip  of  those  fingers,  and  would  start 
suddenly  with  a  sense  of  suffocation,  which  soon  passed  away, 
and  left  her  breathing  free  as  ever.  But  the  glorious  voice  did 
not  come  back,  and  though  she  sometimes  sang  some  sweet, 
low  song,  her  voice  was  very  weak,  and  a  musical  education, 
so  far  as  singing  was  concerned,  was  of  course  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  but  for  all  other  branches  the  best  of  teachers  were  pro- 
cured, and  Edith,  who  possessed  .a  fondness  for  books,  pro- 


44  ELEVEN   YEARS  LATER, 

gressed  so  rapidly  as  to  astonish  even  herself,  while  her  mother 
would  have  been  perfectly  content  but  for  one  little  annoyance 
which  haunted  her  continually,  and  which  increased  with  every 
succeeding  day.  Her  finances  were  fearfully  low  ;  nor  did  she 
know  where  aid  was  to  come  from. 

Since  leaving  Dorset  Street  she  had  assumed  a  mode  of  life 
far  above  her  means,  and  she  was  seriously  considering  the 
propriety  of  taking  lodgers  herself  instead  of  being  lodged, 
when  fortune  sent  in  her  way  a  kind,  simple-hearted  old  man, 
with  less  of  brains  than  money,  as  was  proved  by  his  offering 
himself  to  Mrs.  Fordham,  whose  comely  face  and  dignified 
bearing  attracted  his  fancy,  and  who  accepted  him  at  once  and 
became  Mrs.  Dr.  Barrett,  with  a  pleasant  home  in  a  quiet  part 
of  London,  and  money  enough  to  supply  every  comfort  of  life, 
as  well  as  some  of  its  luxuries. 

Though  twice  married  Dr.  Barrett  had  never  had  a  child,  and 
his  kind,  fatherly  heart  went  out  at  once  to  Edith,  whom  he 
loved  and  treated  as  a  daughter,  and' who  spent  under  his  roof 
the  happiest,  most  peaceful  years  of  her  life. 

As  it  is  not  my  intention  to  narrate  in  detail  the  incidents  of 
those  years,  during  which  Edith  was  first  a  pupil,  then  a  gover- 
ness, and  then  an  organist  at  St.  John's,  I  shall  pass  over  them 
silently,  and  take  my  readers  with  me  to  a  time  when  in  her 
full  maturity  of  beauty  and  grace,  such  as  few  women  have 
ever  possessed,  she  stood  just  on  the  verge  of  the  brilliant  life 
her  mother  had  so  desired  for  her,  and  which  proved  to  be  so 
different  from  anything  of  which  the  wily,  scheming  woman  had 
dreamed. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ELEVEN    YEARS    LATER. 


|R.  BARRETT  was  dead  ;  and  as  with  his  life  the  income 
ceased  which  had  made  Mrs.  Fordham  so  comfortable, 
she  was  again  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  earning  her 
daily  bread,  which  she  did  by  doing  plain  sewing,  and  lctiirvj 


ELEVEN  YEARS  LATER.  45 

t\vo  or  three  rooms  of  the  little  cottage,  whicli  was  all  her  hus- 
band had  left  her. 

Edith  was  not  with  her.  For  two  years  or  more  she  had  been 
the  companion  of  a  Mrs.  Sinclair,  a  wealthy  invalid,  who  had  ad- 
vertised for  some  young  person  who  was  a  good  reader  and  did 
not  object  to  sick  people.  The  salary  offered  was  not  large, 
but  as  there  was  a  prospect  of  permanency,  Edith  had  an- 
swered the  advertisement  in  person  and  been  preferred  to  scores 
of  others,  who  sought  for  the  place.  For  six  months  and  more 
Mrs.  Sinclair  had  been  abroad,  but  she  was  now  in  her  pleasant 
home,  a  few  miles  from  London,  and  on  the  summer  morning 
of  which  I  write  she  lay  on  the  couch  in  her  sitting-room,  which 
opened  upon  the  terrace,  where,  on  a  rustic  bench  beneath  the 
shadow  of  a  maple  tree,  a  young  girl  was  sitting,  her  white 
hands  holding  idly  '/e  book  she  was  not  reading,  and  her  eyes 
looking  far  iway,  ?  •  if  in  quest  of  something  never  found.  That 
was  Edith,  whom  o.ie  would  hardly  recognize,  so  entirely  changed 
was  she  in  style,  and  manner,  and  general  appearance.  The 
bright  color  which  had  once  been  so  noticeable  was  gone,  and 
her  complexion  was  clear  and  white,  and  smooth  as  marble, 
save  when  some  sudden  emotion  called  a  faint  color  to  her 
cheek.  The  eyes,  too,  were  darker  now,  and  when  kindling 
with  excitement,  seemed  almost  black  with  the  long  curling 
lashes  which  shaded  them.  There  was  also  a  darker  shade  on 
the  beautiful  golden  brown  hair,  which  was  coiled  in  heavy 
braids  around  her  well-shaped  head,  and  added  to  her  apparent 
height.  Perfect  in  form  and  face,  graceful  in  manner,  always 
self-possessed  and  ready,  with  the  right  word  in  the  right  place, 
Edith  Lyle  was  a  favorite  wherever  she  went,  and,  during  the 
two  years  she  had  been  with  Mrs.  Sinclair,  that  lady  had  learned 
to  love  her  as  a  sister,  and  treated  her  with  all  the  considera- 
tion of  a  friend  and  equal.  And  Edith  was  very  happy,  save 
when  a  thought  of  the  past  came  over  her,  and  then  there  would 
steal  into  her  eyes  a  look  of  pain,  and  the  muscles  about  her 
mouth  would  contract,  as  if  she  were  forcing  back  words  she 
longed  to  utter,  but  dared  not. 

Her  marriage  was  still  a  secret  to  every  one  save  her  mother. 


46  ELEVEN    YEARS  LATER. 

Even  Dr.  Barrett  had  known  nothing  of  it  until  just  before 
he  died,  when  she  told  him  her  story,  and  begged  him  not  to 
hate  her,  because  it  was  not  earlier  told. 

The  doctor  was  surprised,  but  not  angry,  and,  laying  his  hand 
fondly  on  the  young  girl's  head,  he  said  : 

"  Poor  child,  you  have  suffered  a  great  deal,  and  I  pity  you 
so  much  ;  but  I  am  not  angry, — no,  no.  I  reckon  your  mother 
is  right.  She  generally  is.  She's  a  most  wonderful  woman  for 
business.  You'll  get  on  better  as  a  girl  than  you  would  as  a 
widow, — that  is,  you'll  be  saved  a  great  deal  of  idle,  curious 
questioning,  and  make  a  better  match  by  and  by.  With  that 
face  and  that  manner  of  yours,  you  ought  to  marry  a  title  ; 
as  Widow  Lyle  you  could  not.  Had  the  child  lived  it  would 
be  different ;  now  it  is  dead,  you  had  better  let  matters  remain 
as  they  are.  It  will  please  your  mother  so,  and  be  quite  as  well 
for  you." 

This  was  the  doctor's  advice,  which  lifted  a  heavy  load  from 
Edith's  mind.  Perhaps  it  was  better  to  keep  silent  with  regard 
to  her  marriage,  she  thought,  especially  as  no  one  could  be 
harmed  by  it ;  and  gradually,  as  time  passed  on.  she  came  to 
think  of  the  past  as  a  horrible  dream,  from  which  she  had  awak- 
ened to  find  the  horror  gone  and  the  sunlight  of  content,  if  not 
of  happiness,  still  shining  around  her.  She,  however,  preferred 
her  real  name,  and  when  she  went  to  Mrs.  Sinclair  it  was  as. 
Edith  Lyle,  and  when  that  lady  on  hearing  her  mother  men- 
tioned as  Mrs.  Barrett  asked  how  that  was,  Edith  replied  : 

"  Mother  has  been  married  twice.  Dr.  Barrett  was  my  step- 
father." 

Thus  Mrs.  Sinclair  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth,  and  soon 
learned  to  regard  Miss  Lyle  as  more  than  a  mere  hired  com- 
panion, and  was  never  long  easy  when  away  from  her.  On  the 
day  of  which  I  write,  they  had  returned  the  previous  night  after 
an  absence  of  several  months,  and,  attracted  by  the  freshness 
of  the  morning  and  the  beauty  of  the  grounds,  Edith  had  left 
Mrs.  Sinclair  to  read  the  pile  of  letters  she  found  awaiting  her, 
and  stolen  out  to  her  favorite  seat  beneath  the  maples,  where, 
through  an  opening  in  the  distant  trees  of  the  park,  she  could 


ELEVEN    YEARS  LATER.  47 

catch  glimpses  of  the  Thames  and  the  great  city  with  its  forest 
of  spires  and  domes.  And  as  she  sat  there  in  her  tasteful  cam- 
bric wrapper,  with  only  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon  at  her  throat  and 
in  her  hair,  no  one  who  saw  her  would  have  dreamed  of  that 
tragedy  of  by-gone  years  in  which  she  had  been  so  greatly  in- 
terested,  and  of  which  she  was  thinking  that  June  morning,  so 
like  that  day  at  Schuyler  Hill  when  the  brightness  of  her  life  had 
so  suddenly  been  stricken  out.  Should  she  ever  go  there  again, 
— ever  see  that  grave  which  Ettie  had  promised  to  keep  against 
her  coming  ?  Yes.  She  would  go  alone  some  time  across  the 
sea,  and  lay  her  face  upon  the  grass  which  covered  her  lost  love, 
and  tell  him  of  the  child  that  died  and  whose  grave  she  never 
saw. 

"  But  I  will  see  it  before  I  go,"  she  said  ;  "  I  will  find  where 
they  laid  my  little  one,  and  it  may  be — " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  just  then  the  silvery  stroke 
of  a  bell  reached  her  ear  and  she  knew  she  was  wanted  within. 
She  found  Mrs.  Sinclair  with  many  letters  lying  open  before  her, 
and  one  in  her  hand  which  she  had  evidently  just  read,  and 
which  -seemed  to  disturb  her. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  call  you  when  I  know  how  fresh  and  bright 
it  is  out  doors,"  she  said,  as  Edith  came  to  her  side,  "but  I  find 
here  a  letter,  written  weeks  ago,  which  must  be  answered  at 
once.  It  is  from  my  brother " 

"Your  brother!"  Edith  repeated,  in  some  surprise,  for  that 
was  the  first  allusion  she  ha-d  ever  heard  Mrs.  Sinclair  make  to 
any  near  relatives. 

"Yes,  my  half-brother  Howard,"  was  the  reply.  "I've 
never  spoken  of  him  because — because, — well,  there  was  a  kind 
of  coldness  between  us  on  account  of  his  wife,  whom  I  did  not 
like.  He  brought  her  here  when  they  were  first  married,  and 
had  she  been  a  duchess  she  could  not  have  borne  herself  more 
loftily  than  she  did.  I  did  not  think  her  manners  in  good  taste, 
and  told  my  brother  so  ;  and  as  he  was  in  the  heyday  of  his 
honeymoon  and  saw  nothing  amiss  in  his  Emily,  we  had  a  little 
tiff  and  parted  coldly,  and  I  have  not  seen  him  since.  Regular- 
ly at  the  birth  of  his  children  he  has  written  to  me,  and  just 


48  ELEVEN   YEARS  LATER. 

before  you  came  he  wrote  to  say  that  Emily  was  dead.  I  an- 
swered, of  course,  and  said  I  was  sorry  for  him,  and  that  I 
should  be  glad'to  see  him  and  his  children.  There  are  three 
of  them,  and  the  eldest,  a  boy,  bears  my  maiden  and  married 
name,  Godfrey  Sinclair  Schuyler " 

"  Schuyler ! "  Edith  said,  and  if  possible,  her  always  white 
face  was  a  shade  paler  than  its  wont  at  the  sound  of  that  name. 

But  Mrs.  Sinclair  was  intent  on  her  letter,  and  did  not  look 
at  her  as  she  replied  : 

"  Yes,  my  brother  is  Howard  Schuyler,  and  his  father,  who 
was  of  English  descent,  married  my  mother,  Mrs.  Godfrey, 
when  I  was  seven  years  old,  and  took  us  to  New  York,  where 
mother  died  when  Howard  was  a  baby.  I  stayed  in  New  York 
till  I  was  seventeen,  and  then  came  back  to  live  with  my  aunt 
and  have  seen  but  little  of  Howard  since." 

"And  does  he  live  in  New  York  !"  Edith  asked;  and  Mrs. 
Sinclair  replied : 

"  Yes,  or  rather  a  little  way  out,  in  the  town  called  Hamp- 
stead,  on  the  Hudson  river.  He  has  a  beautiful  place,  I  am 
told,  which  they  call  Schuyler  Hill." 

"  And  you  have  news  from  him  ?  "  Edith  said  next,  her  heart 
beating  rapidly  at  the  lady's  reply. 

"  Yes.  He  is  in  Scotland,  it  seems,  and  wrote  to  know  if  I 
could  receive  him  and  his  son  Godfrey  about  this  time, — let  me 
see,  the  i5th  of  June  he  said,  and  this  is  the  i4th.  I  was  to 
answer  at  once,  and  direct  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  wouM  wait 
my  reply.  His  letter  was  written  ten  days  ago,  and  I  am  so 
much  afraid  he  has  become  impatient  at  not  hearing  from  me, 
that  he  will  perhaps  go  directly  to  the  continent  without  stop- 
ping here  at  all.  My  head  feels  so  badly,  would  you  mind 
writing  a  few  lines  for  me,  just  to  say  that  I  am  home,  and  shall 
be  glad  to  see  him?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  Edith  answered  in  a  voice  which  did  not  in 
the  least  betray  the  storm  of  feeling  she  experienced  at  being 
thus  unexpectedly  brought  face  to  face  as  it  were  with  a  past 
she  had  almost  outlived. 

To  stay  in  that  room  with   Mrs.  Sinclair  while   she  wrote  to 


ELEVEN    YEARS  LATER.  49 

Colonel  Schuyler  was  impossible,  and  asking  permission  to 
withdraw,  she  went  to  her  own  chamber  to  be  alone  while  she 
penned  a  letter  which  by  some  one  of  those  subtle  emotions  or 
presentiments  which  none  can  explain,  she  felt  would  influence 
her  whole  future  life.  She  could  not  understand  it,  nor  did  she 
attempt  to  seek  a  reason  for  it,  but  she  felt  certain  that  Colonel 
Schuyler  was  the  arbiter  of  her  fate,  and  that  with  his  coming 
would  begin  a  new  era  for  her,  and  her  hand  trembled  so  at 
first  that  she  could  scarcely  hold  the  pen,  and  much  less  write 
a  word.  At  last  she  commenced  : 

"  Oakwood,  June  i4th,  18 — ,  Colonel  Schuyler,"  and  there 
she  stopped,  overpowered  with  the  memories  which  the  sight 
of  that  name  evoked.  Once  more  she  stood  with  her  lover  at 
the  garden  gate,  and  saw  the  night  fog  creeping  across  the 
river,  and  heard  in  the  distance  the  faint  rumble  of  the  fast 
coming  train  which  had  thundered  by  just  as  she  gave  her  boy- 
husband  the  last  good-by  kiss,  and  fastened  in  his  button-hole 
the  rose,  which  she  still  carefully  preserved  together  with  a 
silken  curl  cut  from  baby's  head  during  the  first  days  of  her 
maternity. 

How  every  little  thing  connected  with  that  curl  and  rose 
came  back  to  her  now,  and  for  an  instant  she  felt  faint  and 
sick  again,  just  as  she  had  felt  when  they  brought  the  dead  man 
in  and  carried  him  out  again.  In  her  desolation  she  had  said : 
"  I  hate  the  Schuylers,"  and  she  almost  hated  them  now,  even 
though  she  knew  them  innocent  of  any  wrong  to  her.  Col. 
Schuyler  she  remembered  as  a  tall,  fine-looking  man,  and  she 
had  him  in  her  mind  just  as  he  was  when  he  stood  in  the  garden 
path  and  glanced  wonderingly  up  at  her  as  she  called  out  the 
name  and  age  and  birth-place  of  the  poor  youth  whose  memory 
he  wished  to  honor.  That  was  the  only  time  he  had  ever  seen 
her,  and  she  had  no  fear  that  he  would  recognize  her  now.  So 
it  was  not  this  which  made  her  tremble  as  she  again  took  up 
her  pen  to  bid  him  come  to  Oakwood,  his  sister's  country-seat. 
It  was  a  shrinking  from  she  did  not  know  what,  and  after  the 
letter  was  written  and  approved  by  Mrs.  Sinclair,  she  L-lt 
tempted  to  tear  it  up  instead  of  giving  it  to  the  servant  whose 


50  ELEVEN    YEARS  LATER. 

duty  it  was  to  post  it.  But  this  she  dared  not  do,  and  the  letttf 
was  sent  on  its  way,  and  as  soon  as  it  was  possible  to  receive 
an  answer  one  came  to  Mrs.  Sinclair,  who  read  aloud  at  the 
breakfast  table  : . 

"  DEAR  SISTER  HELEN  : — Yours  of  the  i4th  received  and 
contents  noted.  Shall  probably  be  with  you  the  day  after  you 
get  this.  Godfrey  will  accompany  me. 

"  Truly,  your  brother,  HOWARD." 

"  That  is  so  like  Howard,"  Mrs.  Sinclair  said.  '  Short  and 
crisp  and  right  to  the  point.  One  would  almost  think  he  had 
no  heart,  and  yet  I  know  he  has,  though  he  is  very  peculiar  in 
some  things,  very  reserved,  and  very  proud,  and  a  great  stickler 
for  justice  and  honor.  Why,  I  do  not  suppose  he  would  say 
or  act  a  thing  he  did  not  mean  even  to  save  his  life  or  that  of 
his  best  friend." 

"  Yes,"  Edith  said,  idly  toying  with  her  spoon  and  feeling  a 
still  greater  dread  of  this  man  of  honor,  who  would  not  act  a 
lie  to  save  his  life.  "  Yes  :  how  old  is  he  ?  " 

"  How  old  ?  let  me  see.  I  was  past  eight  when  he  was  born, 
and  I  am  forty-nine ;  that  makes  him  almost  forty-one  ;  quite 
a  young  man  still,  and  fine  looking,  too.  I  dare  say  he  will 
marry  again;"  and,  glancing  across  the  table  at  the  beautiful 
lady  sitting  there,  a  curious  thought  sprang  into  Mrs.  Sinclair's 
mind,  which,  however,  had  no  echo  in  Edith's  heart. 

She  had  asked  Col.  Schuyler's  age  more  for  the  sake  of  say- 
ing something  than  from  any  curiosity,  and  she  hardly  heard 
Mrs.  Sinclair's  reply,  so  little  did  she  care.  His  age  or  personal 
appearance  was  nothing  to  her.  It  was  his  presence  in  the 
house  she  dreaded,  because  it  would  awaken  so  many  unpleas- 
ant memories,  and  take  her  back  to  a  time  she  had  almost  for- 
gotten in  the  pain  which  had  come  to  her  during  the  later  years. 
Mat  he  was  coining  to-morrow,  and  at  Mrs.  Sinclair's  request 
she  herself  saw  that  his  room  and  Godfrey's  were  made  ready, 
and  then  at  another  request  from  her  mistress  she  practised  hei 
best  instrumental  pieces,  for  "  Howard  used  to  be  fond  of  mu- 
sic, and  was  sure  to  like  Miss  Lyle's  playing." 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  51 

"Try  that  little  Scotch  ballad,  please.  I  thought  your  voice 
stronger  when  you  sang  it  to  me  last.  Strange  that  it  should 
have  left  you  so  suddenly  !  What  was  the  cause  of  it,  did  you 
say  ?  "  Mrs.  Sinclair  asked. 

"  A  sudden  shock  to  my  nerves  when  I  was  sick,"  was 
Edith's  reply,  and  she  felt  again  the  iron  fingers  on  her  throat, 
and  that  choking  sensation  as  if  her  heart  were  leaping  from 
her  mouth. 

Mrs.  Sinclair  was  very  fond  of  music,  especially  of  singing, 
and  knowing  this,  Edith  had  frequently  sang  to  her  some  simple 
ballads  which  were  written  so  low  as  to  come  within  the  com- 
pass of  her  weak  voice,  but  she  could  not  do  it  now,  and  excus- 
ing- herself,  she  rose  from  the  piano  saying  she  had  a  headache 
and  needed  fresh  air. 

"  I  have  not  seen  mother  since  my  return.  She  was  out  the 
day  I  called,  and  if  you  are  willing  I  would  like  to  go  into  town 
this  morning  ;  the  ride  will  do  me  good." 

Mrs.  Sinclair  was  willing,  and  accordingly  an  hour  later  a 
handsome  carriage  stopped  before  Mrs.  Dr.  Barrett's  gate,  and 
Edith  went  slowly  up  the  walk  toward  the  open  door. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MOTHER    AND  DAUGHTER. 

|HE  world  had  not  gone  very  well  with  Mrs.  Dr.  Barrett 
since  her  husband's  death.  Her  house  was  too  small 
to  admit  of  many  lodgers,  and  as  those  who  came 
were  mostly  Americans,  they  did  not  stop  long,  and  required 
so  much  of  her  that  she  was  glad  when  they  left,  hoping 
to  do  better  the  next  time.  A  pain  under  her  left  shoulder 
made  it  hard  for  her  to  sew,  and  but  for  Edith's  generosity  she 
would  have  been  badly  off.  Edith  was  very  kind  to  her,  and 
gave  her  the  larger  part  of  her  salary,  and  Mrs.  Barrett  was  very 
proud  of  her  daughter,  even  though  that  daughter  had  sorely 
disappointed  her  iu  not  having  married  or  shown  any  disposition 


52  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 

to  do  so,  nor,  so  far  as  Mrs.  Barrett  knew,  had  she  received  but 
one  offer,  and  that  from  so  questionable  a  quarter  that  a  refusal 
was  the  only  alternative.  She  had  been  away  from  home  when 
Edith  called  upon  her  the  day  following  her  return  from  the 
Continent,  but  she  found  the  card  which  Edith  left,  and  when 
her  maid  glowingly  described  the  carriage,  and  the  beautiful 
young  lady  who  came  in  it,  she  said,  with  a  great  deal  of  pride, 
"  That  was  my  daughter." 

"  And  sure  she  walked  as  if  the  ground  wasn't  good  enough 
for  her  to  step  on,"  was  Kitty's  mental  comment,  as  she  won- 
dered at  the  difference  between  mother  and  child. 

After  that  day  Mrs.  Barrett  was  constantly  expecting  Edith, 
and  once  she  thought  of  going  to  Oakwood  to  see  her,  but  on 
the  occasion  of  her  first  and  only  visit  there,  Mrs.  Sinclair, 
whose  likes  and  dislikes  were  very  strong,  had  conceived  a  great 
aversion  for  her,  and  had  intimated  to  Edith  that  though  she 
was  at  liberty  to  visit  her  mother  when  she  pleased,  it  was  not 
desirable  that  the  latter  should  come  often  to  Oakwood.  Know- 
ing this,  Mrs.  Barrett  did  not  like  to  venture,  and  she  remained  at 
home,  waiting  impatiently  for  Edith  until  the  morning  when  she 
saw  at  last  the  well-known  carriage  at  the  gate,  and  Edith  coming 
up  the  walk. 

How  beautiful  she  was,  and  how  like  a  princess  she  looked 
even  in  her  simple  muslin  dress  and  straw  hat,  with  a  lace  scarf 
around  her  graceful  shoulders.  Everything  which  Edith  wore 
became  her  well,  and  now  with  a  faint  flush  on  her  cheeks  and 
a  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  she  had  never  seemed  fairer  to  the  proud 
mother  than  when  she  swept  into  the  house  with  a  grace  and 
dignity  peculiarly  her  own,  and  put  up  her  lips  to  be  kissed. 
Mrs.  Barrett  was  glad  to  see  her,  and  asked  her  many  questions 
concerning  her  journey,  and  admired  her  dress,  and  scarf,  and 
boots,  and  gloves,  and  asked  what  they  cost,  and  told  about  her- 
self, how  she  had  but  one  lodger  now,  and  that  he  found  fault 
with  everything,  and  that  the  day  before  she  had  received  ap- 
plication for  rooms  from  a  respectable  looking  woman,  who 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  middle  or  lower  class.  "  Indeed,  she 
said,  she  had  been  out  to  service  before  her  marriage,  but  that 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  53 

her  husband  had  left  her  a  few  shares  in  the Bank,  so  that 

she  was  quite  comfortable  now." 

"  I  never  thought  I  would  take  any  one  who  was  not  first- 
class,"  Mrs.  Barrett  said,  "  but  my  purse  is  so  low  that  I  should 
have  made  an  exception  in  favor  of  Mrs.  Rogers  if  she  had  not 
told  me  her  cousin  was  waiting-maid  at  Oakwood."  , 

"  Oh,  that  is  Norah  Long,"  Edith  answered  indifferently,  and 
her  mother  continued  : 

"  It  seemed  like  coming  down,  to  lodge  and  serve  a  cousin  of 
Mrs.  Sinclair's  maid,  and  when  she  said  she  had  a  little  girl 
about  eleven  years  old,  and  that  she  wished  her  to  have  a  room 
by  herself,  I  made  that  an  excuse  for  refusing  her.  I  could  not 
give  up  my  best  room  to  a  child,  I  said,  and  I  did  not  care  to 
take  children,  anyway." 

"  I  think  you  were  very  foolish,  mother ;  if  this  Mrs.  Rogers 
would  pay  well,  and  is  respectable,  why  not  take  her  as  soon  as 
another?  The  child  is  certainly  no  objection,  and  it  might  be 
pleasant  to  have  it  in  the  house." 

"Perhaps  so,  but  I  did  not  like  the  woman's  manner.  When 
she  asked  for  the  extra  room  I  told  her  it  belonged  to  my  daugh- 
ter, Miss  Lyle,  who  was  travelling  with  Mrs.  Sinclair,  of  Oak- 
wood.  '  Oh,  Miss  Lyle,'  she  said,  '  I  have  heard  my  cousin 
speak  of  her.  She  is  very  beautiful,  I  believe.'  I  thought  her 
impertinent,  and  answered,  '  People  call  her  so.  Can  I  do  any- 
thing more  for  you  ? '  Even  then  she  did  not  go,  but  offered  me  a 
shilling  more  than  my  price  for  the  rooms.  Indeed,  she  seemed 
resolved  to  have  them,  and  only  a  positive  refusal  on  the  ground 
of  not  liking  to  have  the  child  availed  to  send  her  away.  I 
never  thought  I  should  be  reduced  so  low  that  the  cousin  of  a 
servant  would  insist  upon  lodging  with  me,"  and  Mrs.  Barrett 
began  to  break  down  a  little  ;  then  rousing  herself,  she  said, 
suddenly,  "  Edith,  will  you  never  marry  and  raise  me  out  of 
this  ?  Did  you  find  no  one  abroad  ?  " 

"  No  one,  mother,"  and  Edith  flushed  to  her  forehead,  while 
her  voice  had  in  it  a  tone  of  irritation,  as  she  continued  :  "  How 
many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not  go  about  the  country 
trying  to  sell  myself.  I  am  willing  to  work  for  you  as  long  as 


54  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 

I  have  strength,  but  marry  I  never  shall,  and  probably  could 
not  if  I  would." 

"  Yeu,  with  that  face,  say  you  could  not  marry  ! "  Mrs.  Bar- 
rett exclaimed. 

And  Edith  rejoined  : 

"The  man  who  would  take  me  for  my  face  alone  I  do  not 
want,  and  the  man  whom  I  could  respect  enough  to  marry  must 
know  all  my  past,  and,  after  knowing  it,  how  many,  think  you, 
would  care  to  have  me  ?  " 

There  was  a  gesture  of  impatience  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Bar- 
rett, but,  before  she  could  speak,  Edith  continued  : 

"  Colonel  Schuyler,  of  Schuyler  Hill,  is  expected  at  Oakwood 
to-morrow." 

"  Colonel  Schuyler ! "  and  Mrs.  Barrett  was  surprised. 
"  How  does  he  happen  to  come  to  Oakwood  ?  " 

"  He  is  Mrs.  Sinclair's  half-brother.  I  never  knew  it  until 
the  other  day,  and  Lady  Emily  is  dead,  and  he  is  travelling  in 
Europe  with  Godfrey." 

"  Lady  Emily  dead  !  She  was  a  sweet-mannered  lady,  and 
young,  too.  Why,  Colonel  Schuyler  cannot  be  very  old.  Not 
much  past  forty,  I  am  sure,  and  he  was  very  fine-looking." 

Edith  had  risen  to  go,  and  did  not  in  the  least  understand 
what  was  in  her  mother's  mind;  and  buttoning  her  long  gloves, 
she  said  : 

"  While  Colonel  Schuyler  is  there,  Mrs.  Sinclair's  time  will 
be  occupied  with  him,  and  she  will  not  have  so  much  need  of 
me.  I  will  try  to  see  you  oftener.  I  wish  I  could  take  you 
out  of  this  altogether,  mother,  for  I  know  how  distasteful  the 
life  is  to  you  after  having  known  one  so  much  better ;  but  my 
salary  is  not  large,  and  Mrs.  Sinclair  will  never  raise  it.  It  is*a 
principle  of  hers  to  give  so  much  and  no  more.  If  she  were 
not  so  kind,  I  would  try  for  another  situation." 

"  No,  no,"  the  mother  said,  in  some  alarm  ;  "  don't  leave 
Oakwood  on  any  account.  I've  always  felt  that  something  would 
come  of  your  being  there.  1  can  do  very  well  as  I  am,  only  it 
was  humiliating  to  have  that  Mrs.  Rogers,  who  had  been  in 
service,  come  to  me  for  rooms,  and  act  as  if  she  were  my  equal." 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  55 

"  I  do  not  see  it  in  that  light,  mother,"  Edith  said.  "  If 
Mrs.  Rogers  is  respectable,  and  can  pay,  I  advise  you  to  take 
her.  It  is  far  better  to  have  some  one  permanently,  than  the 
changing,  floating  class  you  usually  have  about  you.  Beside 
that,  it  must  be  pleasanter  to  have  a  decent  woman  in  the  house 
than  a  lot  of  foreign  men  of  whom  you  know  nothing.  Suppose 
I  speak  to  Norah,  and  tell  her  you  will  take  her  cousin  if  she 
has  not '  secured  apartments  elsewhere  ;  and  if  she  wants  my 
old  room  for  her  child,  let  her  have  it.  I  do  not  occupy  it  often, 
and  would  rather  some  nice  little  girl  was  in  it  than  any  one  else. 
Yes,  I  think  I'll  speak  to  Norah."  And  without  waiting  for  her 
mother  to  object,  even  if  she  wished  to  do  so,  Edith  went  has- 
tily down  the  walk  to  the  carriage  waiting  for  her. 

She  found  Mrs.  Sinclair  asleep,  and  Norah  mending  a  lace 
handkerchief  for  her  outside  the  door. 

"  Norah,"  she  said,  "  has  your  cousin,  Mrs.  Rogers,  yet  suited 
herself  with  lodgings  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am.  She  was  just  here.  You  must  have  met  her 
and  the  little  girl  somewhere  in  the  park.  You  would  have  no- 
ticed the  child." 

But  Edith  had  been  too  much  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts 
as  she  drove  through  the  park  to  see  the  woman  and  child  sit- 
ting on  a  bench  beneath  the  trees,  and  looking  curiously  at  her 
as  she  drove  by. 

"  No,  I  met  no  one,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I  wish  you  would  see 
your  cousin,  and  tell  her  that  Mrs.  Barrett,  of  Caledonia  Street, 
No.  — ,  will  accommodate  her  with  rooms." 

"  Two  rooms  ?  "  Norah  asked. 

And  Edith  replied  : 

"Yes,  two  rooms,  if  she  likes,  and  pays  in  advance." 

"  She's  sure  to  do  that,"  Norah  answered,  quickly  ;  "  and  she's 
able,  too.  Her  man  left  her  well  beforehand,  and  the  child  has 
something,  too.  That's  what  makes  Mary, — my  cousin,  please, — 
so  careful  of  her.  She  isn't  her  own,  you  see ;  she's  adopted,  and 
has  a  little  money,  and  Mary  worships  her  as  something  different 
from  common  ones  ;  and  well  she  may,  for  a  sweeter,  prettier 
lass  was  never  born  in  England  than  little  Gertie  Westbrooke." 


56  GODFREY  SCHUYLER. 

There  was  a  sound  in  Mrs.  Sinclair's  room,  and  Edith  has- 
tened to  remove  her  hat  and  scarf  so  as  to  be  in  readiness  for 
the  lady  when  she  was  needed,  and  what  Norah  had  said  to  her 
of  her  cousin  and  the  child  was  scarcely  heeded,  except,  indeed, 
the  name,  Gertie  Westbrooke,  which  struck  her  as  very  pretty, 
and  twice  that  day  she  caught  herself  repeating  it,  while  in  her 
dreams  that  night  it  seemed  constantly  in  her  mind  ;  and  when 
at  an  early  hour  she  woke  from  a  troubled  sleep,  her  chamber 
•was  full  of  the  faint  echoes  of  the  name  of  the  little  girl  who 
was  to  occupy  her  old  room  and  bed  in  Caledonia  Street. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GODFREY    SCHUYLER. 

|T  was  the  day  after  Edith's  visit  to  her  mother,  and 
taking  advantage  of  the  hour  when  Mrs.  Sinclair  took 
her  after-lunch  nap,  she  went  out  with  her  book  into 
the  grounds,  and  strolled  on  until  she  came  to  a  clump  of  trees 
at  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  park,  where  was  a  little  rustic 
chair.  This  had  always  been  her  favorite  resort,  the  place  she 
sought  when  she  wished  to  be  alone,  and  here  she  sat  down, 
ostensibly  to  read,  but  really  to  think, — not  so  much  of  the  past  as 
of  the  future.  That  her  kind,  indulgent  mistress,  who  had  been 
an  invalid  for  so  many  years,  was  failing  fast, was  very  apparent  to 
her  experienced  eyes,  and  only  that  morning  she  had  observed 
that  the  handkerchief  Mrs.  Sinclair  held  to  her  lips  after  a 
paroxysm  of  coughing  had  a  faint  coloring  of  blood  upon  it. 

"  And  where  shall  I  find  a  home  like  this  when  she  is  gone  ?  " 
I'xlith  asked  herself,  sadly.  "I  might  go  back  to  mother  and 
help  her  with  her  sewing,  and  take  Kitty's  place,"  she  said, 
shuddering  a  little  as  she  thought  of  the  small  house  in  Cale- 
donia Street,  so  different  from  the  pleasant  home  which  had  been 
hers  for  more  than  two  years. 

She  might  go  out  as  a  governess  again,  but  when  she  remem- 
bered the  insult  which  she  had  twice  received  when  a  governess, 


GODFREY  SCHUYLER.  57 

once  from  the  young  man  of  the  house,  who  looked  upon  her  as 
lawful  prey,  and  once  from  the  master,  a  brutal  wretch  who 
could  not  withstand  her  beauty,  she  thought  any  life  preferable 
to  that.  Her  face  and  manner  were  both  against  her,  and  if  Mrs. 
Sinclair  died,  her  only  safety  was  in  her  mother's  house. 

"Yes,  that  will  be  the  end  of  it,"  she  said,  a  little  bitterly,  as 
she  remembered  all  her  mother  had  hoped  for  her  and  what  she 
had  once  hoped  for  herself. 

So  much  was  she  absorbed  in  these  reflections  that  she  did 
not  at  first  see  the  two  gentlemen  who  had  entered  the  Park  by 
a  side  gate,  and  were  walking  slowly  up  the  path,  which  led 
directly  past  the  chair  in  which  she  was  sitting.  Two  young 
gentlemen  she  thought  them,  for  one  at  least  was  very  young, 
with  a  supple,  springy  grace  in  every  movement,  while  the 
other,  whose  step  was  quite  as  rapid,  though  it  had  more  dig- 
nity and  character  in  it,  could  not  be  old-  or  even  middle-aged, 
with  that  fine,  erect  form,  that  heavy,  silken  beard,  and  wealth 
of  dark  brown  hair.  That  it  could  be  Col.  Schuylej  and  his 
son  she  never  dreamed,  for  though  Mrs.  Sinclair  had  said 
her  brother  was  not  forty-one,  Edith,  who,  like  most  young 
people,  held  forty  as  an  age  bordering  on  antediluvianism, 
thought  of  him  always  as  a  grayish-haired  man,  with  a  stoop, 
perhaps,  and  a  slow  tread,  and  not  at  all  like  this  man  coming 
so  swiftly  toward  her,  and  pointing  out  something  in  the  Park 
to  his  companion.  He  had  evidently  been  at  Oakwood  before, 
for  she  heard  him  say  : 

"  We  ought  to  see  the  house  from  this  point.  This  must  be 
a  new  path  since  I  was  here,  and  yet  I  remember  that  little 
foot-bridge.  Your  mother  and  I  used  often  to  come  down  to 
it ;  she  liked  to  see  the  water  falling  over  the  white  stones. 
That  was  nineteen  years  ago." 

"  Hush-sh,  father !  look,  there's  a  young  lady  sitting  in  the 
shadow  of  those  trees,"  came  warningly  from  the  younger  man, 
or  boy,  and  then  with  a  great  heart-throb,  Edith  knew  who  the 
strangers  were  and  arose  to  her  feet. 

They  were  quite  up  to  her  now,  and  both  removed  their 
hats  and  stood  with  heads  uncovered,  while  the  elder  said  to  her : 
3* 


58  GODFREY  SCHUYLER 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,  but  will  this  path  take  us  directly 
to  the  house  at  Oakwood  ?  I  was  here  many  years  ago  and 
ought  to  know  the  way,  but  it  seems  a  little  strange  to  me." 

His  voice  was  very  pleasant  and  his  manner  deferential  as 
he  stood  looking  at  her,  while  Edith  replied  that  the  path  did 
lead  directly  to  the  house,  which  could  be  seen  as  soon  as  he 
reached  the  slight  elevation  yonder.  Then  with  eyes  cast 
down  she  stood  waiting  for  him  to  pass  on,  she  thinking  of 
that  one  time  when  she  had  spoken  to  him  from  the  window 
of  the  cottage  in  far-off  Hampstead,  and  he  thinking  of  the 
marvellous  beauty  of  her  face,  and  wondering  who  she  could  be. 

"Some  guest  at  Oakwood,  undoubtedly,"  he  thought,  and 
then  he  put  another  question  to  her  and  said,  "  Do  you  know 
if  Mrs.  Sinclair  is  at  home  this  morning  ?  I  am  her  brother, 
Colonel  Schuyler,  from  America,  and  this  is  my  son  Godfrey." 

With  a  bow  to  both  gentlemen  Edith  replied  : 

"  Mrs.  Sinclair  is  at  home,  and  is  expecting  you.  I  ara  Edith 
Lyle,  Mrs.  Sinclair's  hired  companion." 

She  said  this  proudly,  and  with  a  purpose  not  to  deceive  the 
gentlemen  with  regard  to  her  position  longer  than  was  nece*- 
sary.  She  had  so  often  been  spoken  to  by  strangers  in  just  the 
respectful,  deferential  tone  with  which  Colonel  Schuyler  had 
addressed  her,  and  then  had  seen  the  look  of  unmistakable 
interest  give  place  to  one  of  surprise  and  indifference  when  her 
real  position  was  known,  that  she  wished  to  start  fair  with  these 
guests  of  her  employer,  and  she  was  neither  astonished  nor  dis- 
appointed when  she  saw  the  peculiar  look  she  knew  co  well 
steal  over  the  grave,  proud  face  of  Colonel  Schuyler,  who 
bowed  as  he  said  : 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  knew  she  had  some  young  person  staying  with 
her.  Thanks  for  your  directions.  We  shall  find  our  way  now 
very  well.  Come,  Godfrey." 

But  Godfrey  was  in  no  particular  haste.  A  beautiful  girl  was 
B-ttractive  to  him  under  all  circumstances,  whether  the  daughter 
of  a  hundred  earls  or  the  paid  companion  of  his  aunt,  ajid  his 
manner  had  not  changed  one  whit  when  Edith  announced  her- 
gelf  as  his  inferior  according  to  the  creed  of  the  beau  monde. 


GODFREY  SCHUYLER.  59 

"Come,  my  son,"  Colonel  Schuyler  said  again,  and  then 
Godfrey  passed  on  with  a  look  at  Edith,  which  plainly  meant : 
"  I'd  enough  sight  rather  stay  with  you,  but  you  see  it's  im- 
possible." 

It  was  the  old,  old  story ;  contempt  from  the  older  ones  and 
impertinence  from  the  younger  so  soon  as  she  was  known  for  a 
dependant,  Edith  thought,  and  a  few  hot,  resentful  tears  trickled 
through  the  white  fingers  she  pressed  to  her  eyes  as  the  two  men 
walked  away  and  were  lost  to  view  over  the  hill.  And  yet  for 
once  she  was  mistaken.  Colonel  Schuyler  had  felt  no  contempt 
for  her ;  he  never  felt  that  for  any  woman,  and  the  change  in 
his  manner,  when  he  found  who  she  was,  was  involuntary,  and 
owing  wholly  to  his  early  training,  which  had  built  a  barrier  be- 
tween himself  and  those  who  earned  their  daily  bread  !  He  had 
taken  Edith  for  the  possible  young  lady  of  some  noble  house, 
and  was  disappointed  to  find  her  only  the  companion  of  his 
sister,  but  a  lady  still,  judging  from  her  manners  and  speech  ; 
while  Godfrey  would  sooner  have  parted  with  his  right  hand 
than  have  been'rude  to  any  woman. 

A  dress,  whether  it  hung  in  slatternly  folds  around  a  washer- 
woman, or  adorned  the  daughter  of  a  duchess,  was  sacred  in 
his  eyes,  and  though  in  a  certain  way  he  had  all  the  pride  of  the 
Schuylers  and  Rossiters  combined,  it  was  a  pride  which  prompted 
him  to  treat  every  one  kindly.  His  mother,  who  had  been  very 
fond  of  him,  had  done  her  best  to  make  him  understand  that,  as 
a  Rossiter  and  Schuyler,  it  behooved  him  to  demean  himself  like 
one  worthy  of  so  illustrious  a  line  of  ancestry  ;  but  Godfrey 
did  not  care  for  ancestry,  nor  blood,  nor  social  distinctions,  and 
played  with  every  ragged  boy  in  Hampstead,  and  sat  for 
hours  with  old  Peterkin  the  cobbler,  and  kept  little  Johnnie 
Mack  at  Scnuyler  Hill  all  day  when  his  mother  was  out  work- 
ing, and  the  child  would  have  been  alone  but  for  this  thought- 
fulness.  Everybody  knew  Godfrey  Schuyler,  and  everybody 
liked  him,  especially  the  middle  and  poorer  classes,  to  whom 
he  was  as  the  brightness  of  the  morning. 

An  intolerable  tease,  Godfrey  was  something  of  a  terror  to  his 
eldest  sister  Julia,  whose  imperious  and  sometimes  insolent  man- 


60  GODFREY  SCHUYLER. 

ners  he  mimicked  and  ridiculed,  while  to  Alice  Creighton  of 
New  York,  who  he  knew  had  been  selected  for  his  wife,  he  was 
a  perpetual  source  of  joy  and  annoyance, — joy  when  he  treated 
her  with  that  tenderness  and  gentleness  so  natural  to  him  in  his 
intercourse  with  girls,  and  annoyance  when  even  with  his  arm 
around  her  waist  he  mimicked  her  affected  ways  and  her  constant 
allusions  to  "  when  I  was  abroad." 

In  stature  Godfrey  was  tall,  with  a  graceful,  willowy  form,  a 
bright,  though  rather  dark  complexion,  soft,  laughing  blue  eyes, 
with  a  world  of  mischief  in  them,  and  rich  brown  hair  which 
clustered  in  curls  about  his  forehead,  and  which  he  parted  in 
the  middle  until  his  sister  Julia,  who  did  not  like  it,  called  him 
a  prig  and  an  ape,  while  Alice,  who  did  like  it,  said  it  was 
"pretty,  and  just  as  the  young  noblemen  wore  their  hair  when 
she  was  abroad."  That  was  enough  for  -Godfrey.  If  Alice 
Creighton  liked  it  because  she  saw  it  abroad,,  he  surely  would 
not  follow  the  fashion,  and  the  next  morning  at  breakfast  his 
curly  locks  were  parted  on  the  side  very  near  to  his  left  ear,  and 
a  black  ribbon  bound  two  or  three  times  around  his  head  to 
keep  his  refractory  hair  in  its  place. 

"  If  ever  he  went  abroad  he  hoped  he  should  not  make  a 
fool  of  himself,"  he  said,  and  now  that  he  was  abroad,  he  bristled 
all  over  with  nationality,  and  wore  his  country  outside  as  plainly 
as  if  he  had  had  placarded  on  his  back,  "  I  am  an  American,  and 
proud  of  it,  too." 

Nothing  was  quite  equal  to  New  York  in  his  estimation,  and 
he  was  particularly  averse  to  the  rosy,  healthy-looking  girls 
whom  he  everywhere  met,  and  in  his  first  letters  to  his  sisters 
and  Alice  he  told  them  they  were  beauties  compared  with  the 
Knglish  girls;  "even  if  Alice's  nose  was  a  pug  and  Jule's  fore- 
head so  low  that  it  took  a  microscope  to  find  it,  and  Em's  ankles 
no  bigger  than  a  pair  of  knitting-needles." 

But  when  he  came  upon  Edith  Lyle,  in  her  simple  white 
wrapper,  with  her  perfectly  transparent  complexion,  and  the 
knot  of  blue  ribbon  in  her  golden  brown  hair,  he  acknowledged 
to  himself  that  here  at  last,  even  on  English  soil,  was  a  woman 
more  beautiful  than  anything  he  had  ever  seen  across  the  water, 


GODFREY  SCHUYLER.  6 1 

and  he  took  off  his  hat  and  stood  uncovered  before  her  as  readily 
as  if  she  had  been  the  queen.  That  she  was  only  his  aunt's 
companion,  instead  of  the  high-born  lady  he  had  at  first  supposed 
her  to  be,  made  no  difference  with  him.  She  was  a  woman, 
and  as  he  reached  the  little  hill  beyond  where  she  was  sitting, 
he  turned  to  look  at  her  again,  and  said  : 

'•'  By  George,  father,  isn't  she  a  beauty  ?  " 

Mr.  Schuyler  knew  to  whom  his  son  referred,  and  answered, 
in  his  usual  grave,  quiet  way  : 

"  She  had  a  fine  profile,  I  thought.  Yes,  certainly,  a  remark- 
able profile." 

They  were  near  the  house  by  this  time,  and  in  the  excitement 
of  meeting  with  his  sister  and  the  long  conversation  which  fol- 
lowed, Colonel  Schuyler  hardly  thought  of  Edith  again  until 
dinner  was  announced  and  she  came  in  with  Godfrey.  That 
young  man  had  soon  grown  tired  of  listening  to  talk  about  peo- 
ple and  things  dating  back  to  a  time  he  could  not  remember, 
and  had  sauntered  out  into  the  grounds  in  quest  of  Edith,  who 
was  more  to  his  taste  than  the  close  drawing-room  and  the  in- 
valid on  the  couch. 

Edith  was  in  the  summer-house  now,  and  Godfrey  joined  her 
there,  and  in  his  pleasant,  winning  way  asked  if  he  was  intrud- 
ing, and  if  he  might  come  in  and  occupy  one  of  the  chairs, 
which  looked  so  tempting  under  the  green  vines. 

"  It  was  an  awful  bore  to  hear  old  folks  talk  about  a  lot  of 
antediluvians,"  he  said  ;  "  and  if  she  did  not  mind  he  would  sit 
with  her  awhile." 

Edith*  nodded  assent  and  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  which  he 
took,  and  removing  his  soft  hat  and  brushing  back  his  curls,  he 
said  : 

"  Now  let  us  talk." 

To  talk  was  Godfrey's  delight ;  and  to  Edith's  interrogatory  : 

"  What  shall  we  talk  about  ?  "  he  replied  : 

"  Whatever  you  like  ;  "  and  when  she  rejoined  : 

"  Tell  me  of  yourself  and  your  home  in  America,"  he  men- 
tally pronounced  her  a  fine  girl,  with  no  nonsense  about  her  ; 
and  in  less  than  an  hour  had  told  nearly  all  he  knew  of  himself 


62  GODFREY  SCHUYLER. 

and  of  his  family.  They  had  a  splendid  place  in  Hampstead, 
he  said,  not  so  big  and  rambling  as  the  fine  houses  in  England, 
but  pleasanter  every  way,  and  more  home-like,  with  such  a  fine 
view  of  the  Hudson  and  the  blue  mountains  beyond. 

"  You  have  never  been  in  America  ?  "  he  said,  affirmatively, 
thus  saving  Edith  the  necessity  of  answering,  "  and  so  you  do 
not  know  how  beautiful  the  Hudson  is.  Why,  it  beats  the 
Rhine  all  to  nothing." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Rhine  ?  "  Edith  asked,  smiling  at  this 
enthusiastic  youth,  so  wholly  American. 

"  No,"  and  Godfrey  blushed  as  he  met  her  smile  ;  "  but  I've 
read  of  it,  and  heard  Alice  Creighton  rave  about  it  by  the 
hour,  and  still  I  know  the  Hudson  is  ahead.  You  ought  to  see 
it  once  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Highlands  ;  the  view  from 
our  tower  is  magnificent,  with  those  blue  peaks  stretching  away 
in  the  distance,  and  rising  one  above  the  other  until  I  used  to 
think  them  the  stairs  which  led  to  Heaven." 

How  Edith's  heart  throbbed  as  she  listened  to  his  description 
of  a  place  she,  too,  knew  so  well,  though  of  her  knowledge  she 
dared  not  give  a  sign ;  and  how  she  longed  to  question  her 
companion  of  that  grave  on  the  hillside  !  But  she  could  not,  and 
as  Godfrey  evidently  expected  her  to  say  something,  she  asked 
if  he  had  always  lived  in  Hampstead. 

"  No  ;  I  was  born  on  Fifth  Avenue,  in  a  brown-stone  front, 
so  that  the  first  breath  I  drew  was  sufficiently  stuffy  and  aristo- 
cratic ;  but  I  went  to  the  country  when  I  was  five  or  six  years 
old.  Father  took  the  old  house  down  and  buiit  the  new  one. 
I  never  shall  forget  it, — never,  for  the  dreadful  thing  which  hap- 
pened." 

Edith  knew  just  what  was  coming,  and  steeled  herself  to 
listen  to  the  details  of  that  tragedy  which  had  colored  her 
whole  life.  Again  the  fingers  of  iron  were  clutching  her  throat, 
while  Godfrey  told  of  the  young  man  whom  he  liked  so  much, 
and  who  had  saved  another's  life  at  the  loss  of  his  own. 

"  And  when  they  reached  him,  the  grass  was  red  with  blood, 
and  he  lay  white,  and  still,  and  dead." 

Godfrey's   voice   trembled  as  he  said  these  words,  and  he 


GODFREY  SCHUYLER.  63 

paused  a  moment  in  his  tale,  while  Edith  clasped  her  hands 
tightly  together  and  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not  for  the 
smothered  sensation  choking  and  stifling  her  so. 

"  We  buried  him  in  our  own  lot,  and  bought  him  a  grand 
monument,  and  there  are  many  flowers  round,  the  spot,"  God- 
frey continued  :  and  then  he  glanced  at  Edith,  and  starting  up, 
exclaimed  :  "  Why,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  are  whiter  than 
a  ghost.  You  are  not  going  to  faint  ?  You  must  not  faint !  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  girls  who  faint.  Alice  did  it  once, 
or  made  believe,  and  I  kissed  her  and  brought  her  to  quick." 

He  did  not  kiss  Edith,  but  he  fanned  her  with  his  soft  hat 
until  she  waved  him  off,  and  found  voice  to  say  : 

"It  is  the  heat,  and  your  vivid  description  of  that  poor 
fellow's  death.  Did  you  tell  me  he  was  married  ?  " 

She  asked  the  question  from  an  intense  desire  to  know  if 
anything  had  ever  been  said  of  herself  in  connection  with  the 
dead. 

"  No,  he  was  not  married,  but  there  was  some  talk  of  an 
affaire  du  cceur  between  him  and  a  young  English  girl,  who  went 
oft"  soon  after.  There's  a  bug  on  your  dress,  Miss  Lyle.  Why," 
• — and,  as  if  it  had  just  occurred  to  him,  Godfrey  continued, 
• — "your  name  is  the  same  as  his.  It  cannot  be,  though,  that 
you  were  at  all  related.  He  lived  up  near  Alnwick.  On  our 
way  from  Scotland,  father  and  I  hunted  up  his  friends,  a  sister 
and  widowed  mother, — poor  but  honest  women,  as  the  biogra- 
phers say.  The  mother  lives  with  her  daughter,  and  we  gave 
them  a  thousand  dollars,  and  the  young  woman  promised  to 
call  her  little  boy  after  me.  The  Governor, — that's  father, — did 
not  quite  like  it,  I  guess,  but  I  don't  see  the  harm.  Why,  I've 
named  three  different  Dutch  babies  in  Hampstead,  all  the 
children  of  Mrs.  Peterkin  Vandeusenhisen.  Two  of  them  are 
twins, — and  I  called  one  Godfrey  Schuyler,  and  the  other 
Schuyler  Godfrey, — while  the  third,  which  happened  to  be  a  girl, 
was  christened  Alice  Creighton, — that's  a  young  lady  from  New 
York,  father  s  ward,  who  is  at  Hampstead  a  great  deal, — and  so 
proud  !  Yeu  ought  to  have  seen  her  bit  of  a  pug  nose  go  up 
when  she  heard  the  Dutch  baby  baptized.  Why,  she  nearl/ 


64  GODFREY  SCHUYLER. 

jumped  out  of  her  skin  when  Mrs.  Van, — as  I  call  her  for  short, 
— on  being  asked  lor  the  name,  replied  :  '  Alice  Creighton  Van- 
deusenhisen,  if  you  please."  The  last  was  a  suggestion  of  my 
own,  by  way  of  making  a  more  striking  impression  on  Alice, 
because  you  see,  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen  had  a  son, — Peterkin, 
junior,  who  was  in  love  with  Miss  Creighton,  and  used  to  send 
her  cakes  of  maple  sugar  and  sticks  of  molasses  candy  he  made 
and  pulled  himself.  You  ought  to  see  his  hands !  The  day 
before  the  christening  I  dressed  up  like  a  gypsy  and  deceived 
the  girls  and  told  their  fortune,  and  said  Alice  would  marry  a 
Dutchman,  with  a  long  name,  like  Vanduc  something.  So 
complete  was  my  disguise  that  they  did  not  suspect  me,  and 
when  Alice  heard  the  name  at  church,  Alice  Creighton  Van- 
deusenhisen, she  started  up  as  if  to  forbid  the  banns,  and  then 
catching  sight  of  my  face  she  understood  it  at  once,  and  was  so 
angry,  and  when  we  were  home  from  church  she  cried  and  said 
she  hated  me  and  would  never  speak  to  me  again.  But  she  got 
over  it,  and  last  Christmas  sent  a  wax  doll  with  a  squawk  in  its 
stomach  to  her  namesake." 

Godfrey  had  wandered  very  far  from  the  woman  on  the 
heather  hills  who  had  called  Abelard  Lyle  her  son,  and  though 
Edith  wished  to  know  something  more  of  her  she  did  not  ven- 
ture to  question  her  companion  lest  he  should  wonder  at  her 
interest  in  an  entire  stranger.  She  had  laughed  immoderately 
at  his  account  of  the  babies  named  for  himself  and  Miss  Alice, 
and  when  he  finished  she  said  : 

"You  must  be  very  fond  of  children,  I  think." 
"Yes,  I  am.  I'd  like  a  houseful,  and  when  I  marry  I  mean 
to  have  enough  boys  to  make  a  brass  band.  I  told  Alice  so 
once,  and  her  nose  went  higher  than  it  did  when  she  heard  the 
baby's  name.  She  called  me  a  wretch,  and  an  insulting  dog, 
and  said  she  hated  boys,  and  me  most  of  all.  I  knew  she  didn't, 
though,  because  you  see, — well,  Alice  has  ten  thousand  a  year, 
and  that  will  straighten  the  worst  case  of  turn-up  nose  in  the 
world.  She  is  an  orphan  and  father  is  her  guardian,  and  he  and 
mother  and  Uncle  Calvert,  that's  my  half  uncle  and  Alice's, 
too,  put  their  heads  together  and  thought  she'd  be  a  good  match 


GODFREY  SCHUYLER.  65 

for  me,  and  it  is  rather  an  understood  thing  that  we  will  marry 
some  time,  but  I  don't  believe  we  are  half  as  likely  to  as  if  they'd 
said  nothing  about  it.  A  fellow  don't  want  his  wife  picked 
out  and  brought  to  him  off-hand  as  Eve  was  brought  to 
Adam." 

Here  Godfrey  paused,  and  rising  from  his  chair  shook  down 
his  pants,  a  habit  of  his  when  he  was  interested  or  excited,  and 
as  his  sister  Julia  said,  "  had  talk  on  the  brain."  He  certainly 
had  it  now,  for  Edith  was  the  first  one  he  had  found  whom  he 
had  cared  to  talk  to  since  leaving  the  ship,  and  after  two  or 
three  shakes  he  resumed  his  seat,  and  told  her  of  himself  par- 
ticularly ;  how  he  was  going  to  college  the  next  year,  if  he  was 
home  in  time,  and  after  that  intended  to  study  law  and  distin- 
guish himself,  if  possible." 

"Mother  was  very  proud  of  me,  and  hoped  great  things  of 
me,"  he  said.  "  1  do  not  wish  to  disappoint  her,  for  though  she 
is  dead,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  she  knows  about  me  just 
the  same,  and  when  I  am  tempted  to  yield  to  what  you  call  the 
small  vices,  I  always  feel  her  thin  white  hand  on  my  head  where 
she  laid  it  not  long  before  she  died,  and  said,  '  Be  a  good  and 
great  man,  Godfrey,  and  avoid  the  first  approaches  of  evil.' 
Mother  was  what  they  call  a  fashionable  woman,  but  she  was 
good  before  she  died,  and  so  sure  as  there  is  a  heaven,  so  sure 
she  is  there,  and  I've  never  smoked,  nor  touched  a  drop  of  spir- 
its, nor  sworn  a  word  since  she  died,  and  I  never  mean  to 
either." 

Godfrey's  voice  was  low  and  tender,  and  his  manner  subdued 
when  he  spoke  of  his  mother,  but  very  different  when  he  touched 
upon  his  sisters  and  ridiculed  Julia's  fine  lady  airs  and  Emma's 
readiness  to  be  stiiffed, — his  definition  for  believing  everything 
she  heard,  even  to  the  most  preposterous  story.  They  were  at 
Schuyler  Hill  now,  he  said,  and  Alice  was  there  too,  studying 
with  their  governess,  Miss  Browning,  who,  between  the  three, 
was  awfully  nagged,  though  she  was  quite  as  airy  and  stuck-up 
as  Alice  and  Jule,  and  called  him  "that  dreadful  boy  !" 

"  Boy,  indeed  !  and  I  most  eighteen,  and  standing  five  feet 
len  in  my  socks,  to  say  nothing  of  this  incipient  badge  of  man- 


66  GODFREY  SCHUYLER. 

hood,"  and  he  stroked  complacently  his  chin  and  upper  lip 
where  the  beginning  of  a  brown  beard  was  visible. 

How  he  rattled  on,  his  fresh  young  face  glowing  and  light- 
ing up  with  his  excitement,  and  how  intently  Edith  listened 
and  watched  the  play  of  his  fine  features,  and  admired  his  boy- 
ish beauty  !  Surely  in  him  there  was  nothing  but  goodness 
and  truth,  and  as  she  looked  at  him  she  felt  glad  that  his  young 
life  was  spared,  though  she  could  not  understand  why  her  hus- 
band must  have  been  sacrificed  for  him.  Once  in  her  bitterness 
she  had  felt  that  she  hated  Godfrey  Schuyler,  but  she  did  not 
hate  him  now,  and  as  she  walked  slowly  with  him  toward  the 
house,  she  would  have  given  much  to  have  been  as  fresh,  and 
frank,  and  open  as  he  was,  instead  of  living  the  lie  she  was  liv- 
ing. And  to  what  intent  ?  What  good  had  the  deception 
ever  done  her  ?  What  good  could  it  do  her,  and  why  continue 
it  longer  ?  Why  not  be  just  what  she  was,  with  no  concealment 
hanging  over  her,  and  startling  her  ofttimes  with  a  dread  of  dis- 
covery ?  Why  not  tell  Godfrey  all  about  herself]^  as  he  had 
told  her  of  himself  "i  Surely,  his  recent  talk  with  her  would 
warrant  such  confidence,  and  why  not  commence  at  once  a  new 
life  by  openness  and  sincerity,  even  though  she  lost  her  place 
by  it? 

"  I'll  do  it  and  brave  my  mother,  who  alone  has  stood  in  my 
way  so  long,"  she  thought;  and  she  began  :  "  Mr.  Schuyler" — 
but  before  she  could  say  more,  he  interrupted  her  with  : 

"  Don't  call  me  that.  I'm  too  much  of  a  boy.  Call  me 
Godfrey,  please,  unless  the  name  is  too  suggestive  of  'Godfrey's 
Cordial,'  in  which  case  say  Schuyler,  but  pray  leave  off  the  Mis- 
ter till  my  whiskers  will  at  least  cast  a  shadow  on  the  wall. 
Whv,  I  dare  say  I  shall  call  you  by  your  first  name  yet.  You 
cannot  be  much  my  senior.  How  old  are  you,  Miss  Lyle  ?  " 

It  was  a  question  which  a  little  later  in  life,  when  more  ac- 
customed to  the  world  and  its  usages,  Godfrey  would  not  have 
asked ;  but  Edith  answered  unhesitatingly ;  "  I  am  twenty- 
seven." 

"  Zounds  !  "  said  Godfrey.  "  You  don't  look  it.  I  did  not 
imagine  you  more  than  twenty.  Why,  you  might  almost  be  my 


GODFREY  SCHUYLER.  6^ 

mother  !  No,  it  will  never  do  to  call  you  Edith.  Father's 
eyebrows  would  actually  meet  in  the  centre  at  such  audacity 
on  my  part ;  that's  a  trick  he  has  of  scowling  when  disagreeably 
surprised.  Notice  it  sometimes,  please.  The  only  wrinkle  in 
his  face  is  that  valley  between  his  eyes.'' 

They  were  in  the  hall  by  this  time,  and  bowing  to  her  voluble 
acquaintance,  Edith  passed  on  to  her  room,  where  for  half  an 
hour  or  more  she  sat  thinking  of  the  strange  Providence  which 
had  brought  her  so  near  to  her  past  life,  and  wondering,  too, 
what  the  result  would  be,  and  if  she  should  tell  Godfrey  as  she 
had  fully  intended  to  do,  when  he  interrupted  her  with  his  tide 
of  talk.  It  did  not  seem  as  easy  to  do  it  now  as  it  had  a  little 
while  ago ;  the  good  opportunity  was  gone  and  might  not 
return. 

While  thus  musing  the  dressing-bell  rang,  and  turning  from 
the  window  she  began  to  dress  for  dinner  with  more  interest 
than  usual.  Her  salary  would  not  allow  a  very  extensive  or  ex- 
pensive wardrobe,  even  if  she  had  desired  it,  which  she  did  not. 
Her  taste  was  simple,  and  she  was  one  of  the  few  to  whom  every 
color  and  style  is  becoming.  Whatever  she  wore  looked  well 
upon  her,  and  in  a  little  country  town  she  would  undoubtedly 
have  set  the  fashion  for  all.  Selecting  now  from  her  wardrobe 
a  soft,  fleecy,  gray  tissue,  with  trimmings  of  pale  blue,  her  fav- 
orite color,  she  tied  about  her  throat  a  bit  of  rich  lace  which 
Mrs.  Sinclair  had  given  her,  and  wore  the  pretty  set  of  pink 
coral,  also  that  lady's  gift.  It  was  not  often  that  she  curled  her 
hair,  but  to-day  she  let  two  heavy  ringlets  fall  upon  her  neck, 
and  knew  herself  how  well  she  was  looking,  when,  at  the  ring- 
ing of  the  second  bell,  she  descended  to  the  hall  where  Godfrey 
was  waiting  for  her.  He  had  thought  her  very  handsome  in  her 
morning  wrapper  and  garden  hat,  and  when  he  saw  her  now  he 
gave  a  suppressed  kind  of  whistle,  and  with  as  much  freedom 
as  if  she  had  been  Alice  Creighton,  or  one  of  his  sisters,  said  to 
her,  "Ain't  you  nobby,  though  !  " 

It  is  doubtful  if  Edith  knew  just  what  nobby  meant,  but  she 
set  it  down  as  an  Americanism,  and  knew  she  was  complimented. 

"  Allow  me,"  Godfrey  said,  and  offering  her  his  arm,  he  con- 


68  COLONEL  SCHUYLER. 

ducted  her  to  the  dining-room,  where  his  aunt  and  father  were 
already  assembled. 


CHAPTER  X. 

COLONEL   SCHUYLER. 

|E  looked  up  in  some  surprise  when  he  saw  the  couple 
come  in,  and  the  scowl  between  the  eyes,  of  which 
Godfrey  had  spoken,  was  plainly  perceptible. 

"  My  son  is  getting  very  familiar  with  that  girl,"  was  his 
thought ;  but  he  was  very  polite  to  Edith,  who  sat  near  to  him, 
and  during  the  dinner  he  occasionally  addressed  some  remark 
to  her,  while  his  eyes  wandered  often  to  her  face  with  a  ques- 
tioning look,  which  brought  a  bright  color  to  her  cheek,  and 
made  her  wonder  if  he  was  thinking  of  the  young  girl  who  had 
looked  at  him  from  among  the  vine  leaves  and  told  him  Abel- 
ard's  name. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  her ;  he  was  only  speculating  upon 
the  rare  beauty  of  the  face  beside  him,  and  trying  vaguely  to 
recall  where  he  had  seen  one  like  it. 

"  In  some  picture  gallery ;  a  fancy  piece,  I  think,"  was  his 
conclusion,  as  with  a  growing  interest  in  Edith  he  resolved  to 
question  his  sister  concerning  her  at  the  first  opportunity. 

As  yet  he  had  only  talked  with  Mrs.  Sinclair  of  the  past, 
and  all  that  had  come  to  them  both  since  their  last  meeting 
years  ago.  She  had  told  him  of  her  life  and  failing  health,  so  ap- 
parent to  him  that,  as  she  talked,  he  had  involuntarily  taken  her 
thin  hands  in  his,  and  wished  he  had  come  to  her  sooner ;  and 
then  he  told  her  of  himself  and  his  children  and  his  wife,  who, 
whatever  she  might  have  been  while  living,  had  died  a  good  true 
woman,  and  gone  where  neither  a  Rossiter  nor  Schuyler  is  pre- 
ferred, but  only  they  who  have  His  name  upon  their  foreheads. 
Of  Godfrey  he  had  spoken  with  all  a  father's  pride  for  his  only 
son,  saying  he  hoped  that  this  trip  would  tone  him  down  some- 
what and  make  him  more  of  a  man  and  less  of  a  wild,  teasing 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER.  69 

boy ;  but  of  Edith  he  made  no  mention.  Indeed,  he  had  not 
given  her  a  thought  until  he  saw  her  come  in  on  Godfrey's  arm, 
when  there  awoke  within  him  a  strange  kind  of  interest  in  her, 
and  an  inexplicable  feeling  that  in  some  way  she  was  to  affect 
him  or  his.  He  supposed  her  much  younger  than  she  was,  and 
noticing  Godfrey's  evident  admiration  he  inly  resolved  to  leave 
London  very  soon  and  take  the  lad  out  of  harm's  way,  if  indeed 
any  harm  threatened  him  from  this  beautiful  woman,  who  fasci- 
nated and  attracted  him  as  well. 

"  Sister,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Sinclair,  when  dinner  was  over  and 
they  were  alone  together,  "  who  is  this  Miss  Lyle  ?  She  has  a 
remarkable  face." 

Most  women  have  a  hobby,  and  Mrs.  Sinclair's  was  Edith, 
of  whom  she  was  never  tired  of  talking.  She  had  liked  her  from 
the  first,  and  two  years  of  intimate  acquaintance  had  only  in- 
creased her  fondness  for  the  girl,  and  for  hours  she  would  sit 
and  ring  her  praises  if  she  could  but  find  a  listener.  So,  now, 
when  her  brother  said  what  he  did,  she  began  at  once  : 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  remarkable  person  every  way.  She  has  been 
with  me  more  than  two  years,  and  I  like  her  better  every  day. 
Such  a  face  and  figure  are  rarely  seen  in  this  country,  and  her 
manners  would  become  a  royal  princess  ;  and  yet  she  is  only  the 
daughter  of  a  poor  curate,  who  must  have  made  a  foolish  mar- 
riage with  one  not  his  equal.  I  cannot  endure  the  girl's  mother. 
I've  never  seen  her  but  once,  and  then  she  impressed  me  very 
unfavorably,  as  if  she  was  not  real,  you  know.  Edith  must  be 
like  her  father.  He  is  dead,  and  the  mother  takes  in  lodgers." 

"Ah,"  and  Colonel  Schuyler's  voice  was  indicative  of  disap- 
pointment, but  his  next  question  was:  "  How  old  is  this  girl?" 

"Twenty-seven,  I  believe,"  was  the  reply,  "though  she 
looks  much  younger." 

"  Yes,  she  does.  I  thought  her  about  twenty,"  Colonel 
Schuyler  said,  and  with  his  fear  for  Godfrey  removed,  he  arose 
and  joined  the  young  people,  who  had  just  come  through  a  side 
door  into  the  music  room. 

"  Edith,"  Mrs.  Sinclair  called,  "  play  something  for  my 
brother." 


70  COLONEL    SCHUYLER. 

It  was  Mrs.  Sinclair's  right  to  command,  Edith's  busii.ess  to 
obey,  and  without  a  word  of  dissent  she  sat  down  and  played, 
with  Godfrey  on  one  side  of  her  and  the  colonel  on  the  other, 
both  listening  with  rapt  attention  to  her  fine  playing,  and  both 
admiring  the  soft,  white  hands  which  managed  the  keys  so  skil- 
fully. 

"  Edith,  dear,  sing  that  pathetic  little  thing, 

'  I  am  sitting  alone  to-night,  darling.' 

You  can  surely  manage  that,  it  is  written  so  low,"  Mrs.  Sin- 
clair said :  and  rising  from  the  couch  where  she  had  been  re- 
clining, she  came  into  the  music  room,  and  explained  to  her 
brother  :  "  Her  f  voice  is  not  strong  and  cannot  reach  the 
higher  notes.  She  had  a  great  fright  when  she  was  quite  young, 
wasn't  it,  Edith?" 

"Yes,"  Edith  answered  faintly,  as  she  felt  the  iron  hand 
closing  around  her  throat  and  shutting  down  all  power  to  sing 
even  the  lowest  note. 

"  I  don't  like  sitting  alone  at  night,  darling.  I'd  rather  have 
somebody  with  me,  so  give  us  your  jolliest  piece,"  Godfrey 
said,  making  Edith  laugh  in  spite  of  herself,  and  lifting  the  in- 
visible hand,  so  that  her  voice  came  back  again  ;  and,  at  Mrs. 
Sinclair's  second  request,  she  sang  : 

"  I  am  sitting  alone  to-night,  darling, 

Alone  in  the  dear  old  room  ; 
And  the  sound  of  the  rain, 
As  it  falls  on  the  pane, 

Makes  darker  the  gathering  gloom. 

"  For  I  know  that  it  falls  on  a  grave,  darling, 

A  grave  'neath  the  evergreen  shade, 
Where  I  laid  you  away, 
One  bright  autumn  day, 

When  the  flowers  were  beginning  to  fade." 

Oh,  how  soft  and  low  and  sweet  was  the  voice  which  sang 
the  song  of  which  Abelard  Lyle  had  been  so  fond,  and  there 
was  almost  a  tear  in  Godfrey's  eye,  and  the  colonel  was  begin- 


COLONEL    SCHUYLER.  7 1 

ning  to  look  very  grave,  when  the  white  hands  suddenly 
stopped  and  fell  with  a  crash  among  the  keys,  while  Edith 
gasped,  "  I  can't  finish  it ;  the  iron  fingers  are  on  my  throat, 
just  as  they  were  that  dreadful  day." 

She  evidently  did  not  quite  know  what  she  was  saying,  and 
her  face  was  deathly  pale. 

"  You  are  sick,  Miss  Lyle  ;  come  into  the  air  !  "  Colonel 
Schuyler  said,  and  leading  her  out  upon  the  veranda,  he  mad* 
her  sit  down,  while  Mrs.  Sinclair  brought  her  smelling-salts,  and 
Godfrey  hovered  about  disconsolately,  remembering  the  scene 
in  the  summer-house,  and  wondering  if  she  had  such  spells 
often.  And,  having  knocked  his  head  against  his  father's,  when 
they  both  stooped  to  pick  up  Edith's  handkerchief,  he  con- 
cluded he  was  de  trop,  and  walked  away,  saying  to  himself :  "  I 
do  belfeve  he  is  hit  real  hard.  Wouldn't  it  be  fun  to  call  that 
regal  creature  mother  !  " 

He  laughed  aloud  at  the  idea,  but  did  not  think  it  would  be 
fun,  and  did  not  quite  believe  in  his  father's  being  "hit," 
either ;  but  when  half  an  hour  later  he  returned  and  found  the 
Colonel  still  sitting  by  Edith,  who  had  recovered  herself,  and 
was  talking  with  a  good  deal  of  animation,  he  felt  irritated  and 
impatient,  and  went  off  to  his  room  and  wrote  in  his  "Impres- 
sions of  Europe,"  a  kind  of  journal  he  was  keeping  of  his  tour, 
and  which  he  meant  to  show  "  the  girls,"  by  way  of  proving 
that  one  American  could  go  abroad  and  not  indorse  everything 
he  saw,  and  make  a  fool  of  himself  generally.  His  entry  that 
night  was  in  part  as  follows  : 

"  Oakwood  is  a  fine  old  place,  with  an  extensive  park,  a 
smoke-house,  fine  stables,  a  dog-kennel,  and  seven  servants,  to 
take  care  of  two  unprotected  females.  Edith  Lyle,  aged  27,  is 
the  handsomest  woman  I  ever  saw,  even  in  America.  Her 
features  are  perfect,  especially  her  nose,  which  might  have  been 
the  model  for  the  Greek  Slave.  Not  a  bit  of  a  pug,  and  her 
eyes  are  large  and  soft  and  liquid,  as  those  of  the  ox-eyed  Juno 
(I  like  that  classical  allusion ;  it  shows  reading),  while  her  ears 
are  the  tiniest  I  ever  saw, — just  like  little  pink  sea-shells, — and 
her  splendid  brown  hair,  with  a  shade  or  two  of  yellow  sunshine 


72  COLONEL   SCHUYLER. 

in  it,  rippling  back  from  her  smooth  white  bio\v,  just  exactly 
curly  enough,  and  natural,  too,  I'll  be  bound.  She  don't  put  it 
up  in  crimps,  not  she.  Why,  what  a  scarecrow  Alice  Creighton 
was,  though,  that  time  I  caught  her  with  those  two  forks  hang- 
ing down  about  her  eyes,  with  a  kind  of  clamp  or  horse-shoe  on 
them.  I  like  people  natural,  as  I  am  sure  Edith  is.  I  wonder 
what  makes  her  go  off  into  a  kind  of  white  faint  all  of  a  sudden. 
She  did  it  twice  to-day,  and  I  would  not  wonder  if  she  was 
given  to  fits.  The  governor  is  hit,  sure.  I  never  knew  him 
seem  as  much  interested  in  any  one  before.  The  idea  of  his 
leading  her  into  the  air  and  then  holding  those  salts  to  her  nose 
till  he  strangled  her, — bah  ! " 

And,  while  Godfrey  wrote  thus  in  his  journal,  his  father  sat 
talking  to  Edith,  and  wondering  to  find  how  much  she  knew 
and  how  sensibly  she  expressed  herself.  Colonel  Schuyler  was 
not  a  man  of  many  words,  and  seldom  talked  much  to  any  one, 
but  there  was  something  about  Edith  which  interested  him 
greatly,  and  he  sat  by  her  until  the  twilight  began  to  close  around 
them,  and  his  sister  came  to  warn  him  against  taking  cold  and 
exposing  Edith,  too.  Then  he  went  into  the  house,  and,  with- 
out exactly  knowing  it,  felt  a  little  disappointed  when  she  left 
the  room  and  did  not  come  again. 

Colonel  Schuyler  kept  a  journal,  too,  in  which  he  occasion- 
ally jotted  down  the  incidents  of  the  day ;  and  that  night,  after 
recounting  his  arrival  at  Oakwood  and  his  grief  at  finding  his 
sister  so  great  an  invalid,  he  added  : 

"  She  is  exceedingly  fortunate  in  having  secured  a  most  ad- 
mirable person  for  her  companion.     Besides  being  educated, 
and  refined,  and  beautiful,  Miss  Lyle  impresses  me  as  a  re- 
markable woman.     Yes,  as  a  very  remarkable  woman." 
The  next  night  Godfrey  recorded  : 

"  There  is  nothing  quite  so  foolish  as  an  old  man  in  love ! 
I  wonder  if  he  thinks  she  can  care  for  him  ! — and  yet  he  blushed 
to-day  when  I  found  him  turning  the  leaves  of  her  music  and 
listening  to  her  singing.  I  never  knew  him  listen  two  minutes 
to  Alice  and  Jule, — and  no  wonder,  such  operatic  screeches  as 
they  make  when  Professor  La  Farge  is  there,  and  the  boys  in 


COLONEL  SCHUYLER.  73 

the  street  stop  and  mock  them.  Edith's  voice  is  the  sweetest 
I  ever  heard,  and  so  sad  that  it  makes  a  chap  feel  for  his  ban- 
danna. Why,  even  father  told  auntie  that  her  singing  made  him 
think  of  poor  Emily,  meaning  my  mother !  It  is  a  bad  sign 
when  a  live  woman  like  Edith  Lyle  makes  a  man  think  of  his 
dead  wife.  I  wonder  what  she  thinks  of  him  !  She  looks  as  un- 
concerned as  a  block  of  marble  ;  but  you  can't  tell  what  is  in  a 
woman's  mind,  and  widowers  are  awful.  Why,  there  have  been 
forty  women  after  father  already  ;  but  I  must  say  he  has  be- 
haved admirably  thus  far,  and  never  spoken  to  a  bonnet  out- 
side our  own  family,  unless  it  were  to  Miss  Esther  Armstrong, 
and  that  is  nothing.  She  is  the  Hampstead  school-ma'am,  and 
has  thrashed  me  more  than  twenty  times." 

In  Colonel  Schuyler's  journal  the  record  was  as  follows  : 
"  I  wonder  if  my  dear  Emily  knows  how  much  Miss  Lyle's 
singing  makes  me  think  of  her  and  her  grave  under  the  ever- 
green, where  we  did 

'  Lay  her  away,  one  bright  autumn  day, 
When  the  flowers  were  beginning  to  fade.' 

Miss  Lyle  has  a  singularly  sweet,  plaintive  voice,  and  it  affects 
me  strangely,  for  I  did  not  know  I  cared  for  music.  Emily 
never  sang,  and  the  young  ladies  at  home  make  Very  singular 
sounds  sometimes.  It  is  strange  about  her  losing  her  voice,  or 
rather  her  power  to  reach  the  higher  notes.  It  must  have  been 
a  fearful  shock  of  some  kind,  and  she  evidently  does  not  like  to 
talk  of  it ;  for,  when  I  questioned  her  a  little  and  advised  her 
seeing  a  physician,  she  seemed  disturbed  and  agitated,  and  even 
distressed.  Dr.  Malcolm  at  Hampstead  would  know  just  what 
to  do  for  her,  and  she  ought  to  have  medical  advice,  for  she 
has  a  remarkable  voice, — a  very  remarkable  voice." 

When  Colonel  Schuyler  liked  a  thing,  it  was  remarkable,  and 
when  he  liked  it  very  much,  it  was  very  remarkable ;  so,  when 
he  wrote  what  he  did  of  Kdith  and  her  voice,  he  had  passed 
upon  her  his  highest  encomium. 

Four  weeks  went  by,  and  he  still  lingered  at  Oakwood,  and 
on  the  last  day  of  the  fourth  week  wrote  again : 
4 


74  COLONEL   SCHUYLER. 

"  I  fully  expected  to  have  been  in  France  before  this  time, 
but  have  stayed  on  for  what  reason  I  hardly  know.  It  is  very 
pleasant  here,  and  my  sister's  health  is  such  that  I  dislike  to 
leave  her  so  soon,  even  though  I  leave  her  in  excellent  hands. 
Miss  Edith  is  certainly  a  very  remarkable  person,  and  I  am 
more  interested  in  her  than  I  have  been  in  any  one  since  I  first 
met  my  dear  Emily." 

Here  the  colonel  paused,  and  laying  down  his  pen  went  back 
in  thought  to  the  time  when  he  was  young  and  first  met  Emily 
Rossiter,  the  proud,  pale,  light-haired  girl,  whose  two  hundred 
thousand  in  prospect  had  made  her  a  belle  in  society,  and 
little  as  he  liked  to  own  it  now  that  the  daisies  .were  growing 
above  her,  had  commended  her  to  his  consideration.  His 
courtship  was  short,  and  wholly  void  of  passion  or  ecstasy.  She 
knew  he  was  a  suitable  match  and  she  wished  to  go  abroad,  and 
accepted  him  readily  enough,  and  they  were  married  without  so 
much  as  a  kiss  exchanged  between  them.  He  had  so  far  un- 
bent from  his  cold  dignity  as  to  hold  her  hand  in  his  own  while 
he  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  but  as  soon  as  her  promise  was 
given  he  put  it  back  in  her  lap  very  respectfully,  and  said, 
"That  hand  is  now  mine,"  and  that  was  the  nearest  approach 
to  love-making  which  he  reached  with  Emily.  After  marriage 
he  was  scarcely  more  demonstrative,  though  always  kind  and 
considerate,  and  when  at  her  father's  death  it  was  found  that 
her  fortune  was  one  hundred  thousand  instead  of  two,  he  kept 
it  to  himself  if  he  felt  any  chagrin,  and  never  in  a  single  instance 
checked  her  extravagance,  but  suffered  her  in  everything  to 
have  her  way.  At  the  last,  however,  when  she  stood  face  to 
face  with  death,  and  her  life  with  him  lay  all  behind,  there 
came  a  change,  and  he  could  yet  feel  the  passionate  kiss  which 
the  white  lips  pressed  upon  his  as  they  called  him  "  dear  hus- 
band." 

"  Poor  Emily,"  he  said,  aloud ;  "  we  were  very  happy  to- 
gether." 

Just  then,  upon  the  terrace  below  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
clear,  sweet  voice,  which  thrilled  him  as  Emily's  never  had., 
and  Edith  looked  up  to  the  windows  of  the  room  adjoining  his, 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER.  75 

where  Godfrey  was  calling  to  her.  It  was  a  beautiful  face,  and 
as  he  watched  her  gliding  away  among  the  shrubbery  he  thought 
how  she  would  brighten  and  adorn  his  house  at  Schuyler  Hill, 
and  how  proud  he  should  be  of  her  when  his  money  had  arrayed 
her  in  the  apparel  befitting  his  wife.  Every  barrier  of  pride  and 
prejudice  and  early  training  had  gone  down  before  Edith  Lyle's 
wonderful  beauty,  and  the  proud,  haughty  man  was  ready  to 
offer  her  his  name  and  hand  on  one  condition.  Her  mother 
could  not  go  with  her,  and  in  taking  him  she  must  give  up  her 
family  friends,  if  indeed  she  had  any  besides  the.  mother.  He 
knew  nothing  against  Mrs.  Barrett,  but  his  sister  disliked  her,  and 
that  was  enough,  if  he  ignored,  as  he  tried  to  think  he  did,  the 
fact  that  she  took  in  lodgers  and  sewing.  Many  highly  respecta- 
ble ladies  did  that,  he  knew,  but  he  had  a  feeling  that  Edith's 
mother  was  not  highly  respectable,  and  he  doubted  if  she  was  a 
lady  even.  His  sister,  when  questioned  with  regard  to  Edith's 
family,  had  reported  the  mother  as  a  pushing,  curious,  disagree- 
able woman,  who  assumed  to  be  what  she  certainly  was  not. 
|  "  Edith  is  not  like  her  in  the  least,  and  must  inherit  her  natu- 
ral refinement  and  delicacy  from  her  father,"  Mrs.  Sinclair  had 
said,  and  the  colonel  was  satisfied  if  one  side  of  the  house  was 
comme  il  faut. 

\  As  a  Schuyler  he  could  afford  to  stoop  a  little,  and  he  felt 
that  it  was  stooping  to  marry  his  sister's  hired  companion.  As 
far  as  position  was  concerned,  he  might  as  well  take  poor,  plain 
Ettie  Armstrong,  the  village  schoolmistress,  who  in  point  of 
family  was  undoubtedly  Edith's  equal.  There  was,  however, 
this  difference.  The  people  at  home  could  know  nothing  of 
Edith's  antecedents,  save  that  she  was  an  English  girl  and  the 
daughter  of  a  curate ;  while  another  fact,  which  outweighed  all 
else,  was  her  exceeding  great  beauty  and  queenly  style,  which, 
with  proper  surroundings  and  influence,  would  place  her  on  the 
highest  wave  of  society.  And  he  was  ready  to  give  her  the  sur- 
roundings and  the  influence,  and  felt  a  thrill  of  exultant  pride 
as  he  saw  her  in  fancy  at  the  head  of  his  table  and  moving 
through  his  handsome  rooms,  herself  the  handsomest  appendage 
there. 


?6  EDITirS  DIARY. 

"  I  may  as  well  settle  it  at  once,"  he  thought,  and  the  next 
day  he  .found  his  opportunity  and  took  it,  with  what  success  the 
reader  will  learn  from  a  page  in  Edith's  diary. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
EDITH'S  DIARY. 

OAK  WOOD,  July  i$tA,  18 — 

IM  I  dreaming,  or  is  it  a  reality  that  Col.  Schuyler  has 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife?  He  says  he  thinks  I  am 
more  beautiful  than  any  woman  he  has  ever  seen,  and 
that  I  would  make  such  a  rare  gem  for  his  house  at  Hampstead, 
and  he  would  surround  me  with  every  possible  luxury.  And 
in  his  voice,  usually  so  cold  and  calm  and  impassioned,  there 
was  a  little  trembling,  and  his  forehead  flushed  as  he  went 
on  io[  state  the  one  condition  on  which  he  would  do  me  this 
honor : 

"  My  mother  must  have  no  part  in  my  grandeur  !  She  must 
remain  here.  If  necessary,  money  should  be  freely  given  for 
her  needs,  but  she  could  not  live  with  me  !  " 

Poor  mother,  with  all  her  planning  and  her  dreams  of  my 
brilliant  future  she  never  once  thought  that  when  the  chance 
came  she  would  be  left  out  and  have  neither  part  nor  lot  in  the 
question  !  What  would  she  say  if  she  knew  it,  and  what  will 
she  say  when  I  tell  her  I  refused  him  ?  For  I  did,  and  told  him 
it  could  never  be.  For  a  moment,  though,  weak  woman  that  I 
am,  I  was  tempted  to  end  this  life  of  dependence  and  poverty, 
and  take  what  he  offered  me  ;  not  his  love  :  he  never  hinted  at 
such  an  emotion,  and  I  think  that  feeling  is  rare  in  such  natures 
as  his.  I  doubt  if  he  felt  it  for  the  Lady  Emily,  whom  he  mar- 
ried in  his  May  time,  and  surely  now  in  his  October  he  has  no 
place  for  foolishness  of  that  kind.  He  does  not  love  me,  but 
he  admires  my  face  and  form,  and  would  no  doubt  be  very  kind 
and  careful  of  me,  just  as  he  would  be  kind  to  and  careful  of  a 


EDI7WS  DIARY.  77 

favorite  horse  whose  looks  depended  on  such  treatment.  Ke 
would  hang  upon  me  jewels  rare,  with  silks  and  laces  and 
satins,  and  I  could  wear  them  and  feel  my  heart  break  afresh 
each  time  I  looked  from  my  window  across  the  lawn  to  that 
grave  under  the  evergreen  where  Abelard  is  lying.  I  should 
hear  him  discussed,  and  with  Colonel  Schuyler  stand  by  the 
mound  and  listen  to  a  story  I  know  so  well,  and  loathe  myself 
for  the  lie  I  was  acting,  for  if  I  was  there  as  Colonel  Schuyler' s 
wife,  my  life  would  be  one  tissue  of  falsehood  and  deceit.  He, 
of  all  men  in  the  world,  would  not  take  me  if  he  knew  the 
truth,  and  during  that  interval  when  I  hesitated  I  had  resolved 
not  to  tell  him  !  I  would  go  to  him,  if  I  went  at  all,  as  Edith 
Lyle  the  maiden,  and  not  Edith  Lyle  the  widow.  But  only  for 
an  instant,  thank  Heaven,  did  the  tempter  have  me  in  his  con- 
trol ere  I  cast  him  behind  me  with  the  resolve  that  whatever 
else  I  might  do,  I  would  be  frank  with  the  man  whom  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  marry,  and  as  I  had  not  made  up  my  mind  to 
marry  Colonel  Schuyler,  I  did  not  tell  him  who  I  was.  I  only 
declined  his  offer,  and  said  it  could  not  be,  and  when  his  remark 
that  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing  angered  me,  I  burst  out 
impetuously  : 

"I  do  know  what  I  am  doing.  I  am  refusing  a  match 
which  the  world, — your  world,  would  say  was  far  above  me;  but, 
Colonel  Schuyler,  poor  as  I  am,  and  humble  in  position,  I  am 
rich  in  the  feeling  which  will  not  let  me  sell  myself  for  a  name 
and  a  home.  And  if  I  accepted  you  it  would  be  only  for  that. 
I  respect  you.  I  believe  you  to  be  sincere  in  your  offer,  and 
that  you  would  try  to  make  me  happy,  but  you  could  not  do  it 
unless  I  loved  you,  and  I  do  not ;  besides " 

Here  he  stopped  me,  and  took  both  my  hands  in  his,  and 
seemed  almost  tender  and  lovable  as  he  said 
'  ,  "  Edith,  I  did  not  suppose  you  could  love  me  so  soon,  but  I 
fiopied  you  might  grow  to  it  when  you  found  how  proud  I  was 
of  you,  and  how  I  would  try  to  make  you  happy." 

"Colonel  Schuyler,"  I  interrupted  him,  "you  have  talked  of 
your  pride  in  me,  and  your  admiration  of  me,  but  you  have  said 
nothing  of  love.  Answer  me  now,  please.  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 


78  EDITH'S  DIARY. 

He  wanted  to  say  yes,  I  know,  for  his  chin  quivered,  and 
there  was  in  his  face  the  look  of  one  fighting  with  some  princi- 
ple hard  to  be  overcome.  In  his  case  it  was  the  principle  of 
truth  and  right,  and  it  conquered  every  other  feeling,  and  com- 
pelled him  to  answer : 

"  Perhaps  not  as  you  in  your  youth  count  love.  Our  acquaint- 
ance has  been  too  short  for  that ;  but  I  can  and  I  will ;  only 
give  me  a  chance.  Don't  decide  now.  I  will  not  take  it  as  a 
decision  if  you  do.  Wait  till  my  return  from  the  Continent,  and 
then  tell  me  what  you  will  do.  I  had  hoped  to  take  you 
with  me,  and  thought  that  the  glories  of  Rome,  seen  by  me 
twice  before,  would  gain  new  interest  with  your  eyes  beside  me. 
But  my  sister  needs  you  ;  stay  with  her  during  my  absence,  and 
try  to  like  me  a  little,  and  when  I  come  back  I  know  I  can  say 
to  you,  '  Edith  Lyle,  I  love  you.' " 

•     I  was  touched  and  softened  by  his  manner  quite  as  much  as 
by  what  he  said,  and  I  replied  to  him,  gently  : 

"  Even  then  my  answer  must  be  the  same.  My  love  was 
buried  years  ago.  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you  of  the  past." 

Again  those  dreadful  fingers  clutched  my  throat  as  I  tried  to 
tell  him  of  Abelard,  and  my  dead  baby,  buried  I  knew  not  where. 
My  voice  was  gone,  and  my  face,  which  was  deadly  pale,  fright- 
ened him  I  know,  for  he  led  me  to  the  window  and  pushed  my 
hair  from  my  brow  and  said  to  me  : 

"  Edith,  please  do  not  distress  yourself  with  any  tale  of  the 
past.  You  say  you  have  loved  and  lost  that  love,  and  let  that 
suffice.  I  suspected  something  of  the  kind,  but  you  are  not  less 
desirable  to  me.  /have  loved  and  lost,  and  in  that  respect  we 
are  even;  so  let  nothing  in  the  past  deter  you  from  giving  me 
the  answer  I  so  much  desire  when  I  return  to  Oak  wood.  God- 
frey is  coming  this  way.  I  hear  his  whistle;  so  good-night,  and 
Heaven  bless  you,  Edith." 

He  pressed  my  hand  and  left  the  room  just  as  Godfrey  enter- 
ed the  door  in  another  direction,  singing  softly  when  he  saw  me  : 

"  She  sat  by  the  door  one  cold  afternoon, 
To  hear  the  wind  blow  and  look  at  the  moon  ; 
So  pensive  was  Edith,  my  dear,  darling  Edith." 


EDITirS  DIARY.  79 

He  did  not  get  any  farther,  for  something  in  his  light  badin- 
age jarred  upon  my  feelings  just  then,  and  assuming  a  severe 
dignity,  I  said  : 

"You  mistake  the  name.  I  am  not  Edith.  I  am  Miss 
Lyle." 

He  looked  surprised  an  instant,  and  then,  with  a  comical 
smile  and  a  shaking  down  of  his  pants,  he  said : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Lyle.  I  meant  Kathleen 
O' Moore,  of  course,  but  seeing  you  at  the  moment  I  made  a 
mistake  in  the  name,  and  no  wonder,  dazed  as  I  am  with  a  let- 
ter just  received  from  Alice,  who  hopes  I  shall  return  from  my 
foreign  travel  greatly  improved  in  mind,  and  taste,  and  man- 
ners, as  if  the  latter  could  be  improved.  She  sent  her  picture 
too.  Would  you  like  to  see  it  ?  " 

He  passed  me  the  carte-de-visite,  and  I  saw  the  likeness  of  a 
girl  who  he  said  was  only  sixteen,  but  whom  I  should  have 
taken  for  twenty,  at  least,  judging  from  the  dress  and  the  ex- 
pression of  the  face,  which  I  did  not  like.  It  was  too  super- 
cilious, if  not  insolent,  to  suit  me,  while  the  turned-up  nose 
added  to  the  look.  And  still  there  was  a  style  about  her  which 
marked  her  as  what  is  called  a  "  high-bred  city  girl,"  and  I 
have  no  doubt  she  will  eventually  become  a  belle,  with  her  im- 
mense fortune  and  proud,  arrogant  demeanor. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  "  Godfrey  asked  ;  and  feeling 
sure  that  with  regard  to  her  his  feelings  could  not  be  wounded, 
I  answered  : 

"  I  do  not  quite  like  her  expression,  and  she  looks  too  old  for 
you." 

"  Good  !  I'll  tell  her  that  some  time  when  she  is  nagging  me 
unmercifully,"  Godfrey  said,  adding  :  "  I  had  a  letter  from  Jule 
too,  with  her  photograph,  and  also  one  of  our  house  and 
grounds.  This  is  Julia." 

It  was  the  face  of  a  brunette,  dark,  handsome,  but  proud 
and  imperious,  and  I  was  glad  that  she  was  not  to  be  my  step- 
daughter. 

"  Jule  is  handsome,  except  her  ears,  which  are  as  big  as  a 
palm-leaf  fan,"  Godfrey  said,  and  I  replied  : 

V 


8o  EDITWS  DIARY. 

"Yes,  she  is  handsome,  and  will  make  a  brilliant  woman." 

"  This  is  our  home,"  he  continued,  and  he  put  into  my  hand 
a  large  photograph  of  the  house  on  Schuyler  Hill,  and  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  grounds. 

There  were  the  tops  of  the  evergreens,  and  there  was  a 
white  stone  shining  through  the  green,  and  I  said  to  Godfrey, 

"Whose  monument  is  that?" 

"That?  Let  me  see.  Why,  that  is  young  Lyle's,  the  man 
who  saved  my  life.  You  remember  I  told  you  about  him  ? 
Mother's  is  farther  on  and  out  of  sight." 

How  faint  and  sick  I  felt  to  have  Abelard's  grave  thus 
brought  near  to  me,  and  there  was  a  blur  before  my  eyes, 
which,  for  a  moment,  prevented  me  from  seeing  distinctly. 
Then  it  cleared  away,  and  I  was  able  to  examine  the  picture 
and  see  how  the  grounds  had  been  improved  since  that  morn- 
ing when  Abelard's  blood  was  on  the  grass  where  now  the 
flowers  were  growing.  It  was  a  fine  place,  and  as  I  looked  at 
it  and  thought  it  had  been  offered  me,  ay,  might  yet  be  mine, 
if  I  would  take  it,  did  I  feel  any  regret  for  having  refused  it  ? 
None  whatever.  If  I  were  to  tell  Col.  Schuyler  everything  I 
should  never  go  there,  and  if  I  were  to  go  without  telling  him 
my  life  would  be  one  of  wretchedness  and  hatred  of  myself. 
No,  better  bear  with  poverty  and  servitude  than  live  a  greater 
lie  than  I  am  living  now.  So  I  gave  the  picture  back  to 
Godfrey,  and  bidding  him  good-night,  came  up  to  my  room, 
where  I  could  be  alone,  to  think  over  the  events  of  that  event- 
ful day. 

EXTRACT  FROM  GODFREY'S  JOURNAL. 

What  a  regal  creature  Edith  is  !  and  I  do  believe  father 
thinks  so  too,  but  that  would  be  an  awful  match  for  her.  Jule 
would  scratch  her  eyes  out,  and  if  ever  I  should  marry  Alice, 
which  I  never  shall,  but  if  I  do,  and  bring  her  home  to  Schuyler 
Hill,  wouldn't  I  have  lively  times  between  step  mother  and 
wife ;  but  that  is  too  absurd  to  consider  for  a  moment.  I  wish 
she  was  younger  or  that  I  was  older.  Let  me  see, — 'most 
eighteen  from  "most  twenty-eight,  leaves  ten.  No,  that  will 


EDITH  AND  HER  MOTHER.  8 1 

never  do.  A  man  may  not  marry  his  grandmother,  much  less 
a  boy,  as  Jule  calls  me  in  her  letter,  giving  me  all  sorts  of 
advice,  and  hoping  I  will  overcome  that  habit  of  wriggling, — 
meaning  the  way  I  have  of  shaking  down  my  pants.  As  if  I 
knew  when  I  did  it.  Alice's  letter  was  a  very  good  one,  only 
why  need  she  call  me  "Dear  Godfrey"  when  I'm  not  her 
Dear  Godfrey,  and  never  shall  be.  Why,  she  looks  older  than 
Miss  Lyle  herself  in  that  picture,  with  her  hair  stuck  on  the  top 
of  her  head  like  a  heathen  Chinee.  I  believe  I'll  tear  the  picture 
up.  Miss  Lyle  did  not  like  it,  neither  do  I,  and  I  will  not 
have  it  in  my  possession.  I  wonder  if  Miss  Lyle  would  give  me 
hers.  I  mean  to  ask  her  to-morrow." 

He  did  ask  her  and  received  no  for  his  answer,  and  then  tore 
up  Alice's  photograph,  and  packed  his  valise,  and  with  his  father 
set  off  for  Paris  the  following  day. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

EDITH    AND    HER    MOTHER. 

|ND  you  refused  him  ?  " 

11  Yes,  mother,  I  refused  him." 
"  Are  you  crazy,  child  ?  " 
"  Not  as  crazy  as  I  should  be  to  accept  him." 
Edith  was  sitting  with  her  mother  in  the  little  house  in  Cale- 
donia Street,  when  the  above  conversation  took  place.     It  was 
the  day  of  Col.   Schuyler's  departure   for  Paris,   and  she  had 
driven  into  town,  with  permission  to  stay  to  tea  if  she  liked. 
She  had  not  intended  to  tell  her  mother  what  had  been  said  to 
her  by  the  colonel,  but  when  questioned  of  him  something  in 
her  manner  excited  Mrs.  Barrett's  suspicion,  and  in  her  usual 
forcible  way  she  wrung  from  her  daughter  the  fact  that  Schuyler 
Hill  had  been  offered  to  her  and  refused.     To  say  that  Mrs. 
Barrett  was  angry  would  feebly  express  her  emotions.     In  all 
her  dreams  for  Edith  she  had  never  hoped  for  anything  quite 
equal  to  an  alliance  with  Col.  Schuyler,  and  now  that  she  had 
4* 


82  EDITH  AND  HER  MOTHER. 

wilfully  thrown  the  chance  away  she  was  exceedingly  indignant, 
and  expressed  her  disapprobation  in  terms  so  harsh  and  bittei 
that  Edith,  who  seldom  felt  equal  to  a  contest  with  her  mother's 
fierce,  strong  will,  roused  herself  at  last  and  answered  back  : 

"  Mother,  you  have  said  enough,  and  you  must  stop  now  and 
listen  to  me.  You  upbraid  me  for  having  thrown  away  the 
chance  for  which  you  have  waited  so  long,  and  to  which  you 
say  you  have  shaped  every  act  of  your  life  since  I  was  born, 
and  you  accuse  me  of  ingratitude  when  you  have  done  so  much 
for  me.  Mother,  for  all  the  real  good  you  have  done  me  I  am 
grateful,  and  you  know  how  gladly  I  will  work  for  you  so  long 
as  I  have  health  and  strength  to  do  so,  but  for  the  secrecy  you 
have  imposed  upon  me  with  regard  to  my  past  life  I  do  not 
thank  you,  and  could  I  go  backward  a  few  years,  or  had  my 
baby  lived,  I  would  have  no  concealments  from  the  world.  To 
me  it  is  no  shame  that  I  was  once  the  wife  of  Abelard  Lyle ; 
the  shame  is  that  I  try  to  hide  it,  and  when  Colonel  Schuyler 
asked  me  to  be  his,  the  truth  sprang  to  my  lips  at  once,  and  but 
for  that  terrible  choking  sensation  which  came  upon  me  when 
you  took  baby  away,  I  should  have  told  him  all." 

"  And  ruined  your  prospects  forever,"  Mrs.  Barrett  said,  an- 
grily. 

"  Yes,  ruined  them  forever  so  far  as  Col.  Schuyler  is  con- 
cerned, but  that  would  have  mattered  little,"  Edith  answered, 
proudly.  "  I  have  no  love  for  him  ;  he  has  none  for  me.  I 
asked  him  the  question,  and  he  could  not  tell  me  yes.  His 
fancy  was  caught,  and  he  talked  of  my  beauty,  and  grace,  and 
voice,  and  culture,  and  hinted  that  I  was  a  fitting  picture  for 
his  handsome  home  in  Hampstead.  You  saw  Lady  Emily 
once.  You  remember  how  pale,  and  sallow,  and  thin  she  was. 
Neither  gems  nor  rich  gay  clothing  could  make  her  fair  to  look 
upon,  and  I  have  no  doubt  her  husband  would  be  prouder  of 
me  than  he  ever  was  of  her,  with  all  her  money  and  Rossiter 
blood,  that  is,  if  he  took  me  as  Edith  Lyle,  the  daughter  of  an 
English  curate,  and  nothing  more ;  but  once  let  him  know  the 
truth,  as  he  assuredly  must  have  known  it  if  1  had  for  a  moment 
considered  his  proposition, — and  think  you  he  would  not  have 


EDITH  AND  HER  MOTHER.  83 

spurned  with  contempt  the  widow  of  a  carpenter,  and  that  car- 
penter his  own  hired  workman  ?  " 

"  Not  if  he  truly  loved  you,"  Mrs.  Barrett  interposed  ;  and 
Edith  answered  impetuously  : 

*  "  But  I  tell  you  he  does  not  love  me.  He  only  cares  for  my 
personal  attractions, — he  would  like  to  show  me  off  as  his  young 
English  bride,  whose  family  must  be  ignored,  for,  mother,  he 
told  me  that  distinctly ;  he  said  he  knew  nothing  of  my  friends, 
and  did  not  care  to  know,  as  he  wished  for  me  alone  ;  that  if  I 
married  him,  you  must  stay  behind, — a  mother-in-law  always  made 
more  or  less  trouble,  and  he  preferred  to  have  you  remain  where 
you  are,  and  if  money  was  needed  for  your  support,  it  should 
always  be  forthcoming  in  sufficient  amount  for  every  comfort." 

"  And  yet  he  knows  nothing  of  me  to  dislike,"  Mrs.  Barrett 
faltered,  her  countenance  falling,  and  her  eyes  having  in  them 
a  look  of  disappointment. 

That  she  was  to  be  set  aside  and  have  no  part  in  Edith's 
grandeur,  had  never  occurred  to  her,  and  in  fancy  she  had 
already  crossed  the  sea  and  was  luxuriously  domesticated  at 
Schuyler  Hill,  as  the  mother  of  the  mistress  and  general  super- 
intendent of  everything,  with  plenty  of  money  at  her  command, 
and  herself  looked  up  to  and  envied  by  the  very  people  who 
had  once  treated  her  slightingly,  and  who  would  never  suspect 
of  having  known  her  as  Mrs.  Fordham.  She  looked  much 
older  now  than  she  had  eleven  years  ago,  and  her  hair  was 
white  as  snow,  while  the  deep  black  she  wore  constantly  was  a 
still  more  complete  disguise.  So  there  was  no  danger  of  detec- 
tion,— no  link  to  connect  her  with  the  cottage  by  the  bridge 
where  she  once  lived,  or  that  grave  under  the  evergreen.  But 
all  this  was  of  no  avail.  Col.  Schuyler  would  not  have  her  on 
any  terms,  and  knowing  this  she  was  the  more  easily  reconciled 
to  Edith's  decision,  until  by  dint  of  questioning  she  learned  that 
the  colonel  did  not  consider  the  matter  settled,  but  would  urge 
his  suit  again  on  his  return  to  England.  Then  her  old  ambi- 
tion revived,  and  with  a  mother's  forgetfulness  of  self,  she 
thought,  "  She  shall  accept  him  then.  I  will  see  her  a  lady 
even  if  I  starve  in  a  garret." 


84  MRS.   BARRETTS  LODGERS. 

But  she  wisely  resolved  to  say  no  more  upon  the  subject  at- 
present,  and  Edith  had  arisen  to  go,  when  down  the  stairs  came 
the  patter  of  little  feet,  and  a  sweet,  childish  voice  was  heard 
warbling  a  simple  Scottish  ballad,  and  Edith  caught  a  gleam  of 
bright  auburn  hair  falling  under  a  white  cape  bonnet,  as  a  young 
girl  went  past  the  window  and  out  upon  the  walk. 
*  "  Whose  child  is  that  ?  Has  Mrs.  Rogers  come  ?  "  she  asked, 
and  Mrs.  Barrett  answered  : 

"  She  has  been  here  nearly  two  weeks,  and  that  is  little  Ger- 
tie Westbrooke." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
MRS.  BARRETT'S  LODGERS. 

DRS.  ROGERS  had  received  a  message  from  her  cousin 
Norah,  which  sent  her  again  to  Caledonia  Street, 
where  she  found  Mrs.  Barrett  more  civil  than  before, 
and  more  inclined  to  let  her  rooms.  Some  little  hesitancy  there 
was,  it  is  true,  with  regard  to  the  chamber  which  had  been 
Edith's,  and  where  she  now  occasionally  spent  a  night. 

"  Surely  your  daughter  can  sleep  with  you,  and  does  not  re- 
quire an  extra  room,"  Mrs.  Barrett  said ;  and  Mrs.  Rogers  re- 
plied : 

"  I  prefer  that  she  should  have  a  room  to  herself.  As  I  told 
you  before,  she  is  not  my  child,  and  I  am  more  particular  on 
that  account  to  bring  her  up  different.  She  has  as  good  blood 
in  her  veins  as  many  a  would-be  fine  lady." 

So  Mrs.  Barrett  gave  up  the  point  and  prepared  Edith's  old 
room  for  little  Gertie,  to  whom  Mary  was  as  devoted  as  if  she 
Jiad  been  a  scion  of  nobility.  If  Mrs.  Barrett  had  cared  for 
Children  she  would  have  been  interested  in  Gertie  at  once,  but 
as  it  was  she  did  not  notice  her  particularly  till  she  had  been  for 
several  days  an  inmate  of  the  house.  Then  one  afternoon,  as 
she  sat  at  her  sewing,  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  sweet  voice 
singing  a  familiar  air.  Something  in  the  tone  of  the  voice  ar- 


MRS.   BARRETFS  LODGERS.  85 

rested  her  attention,  and  carried  her  back  to  the  time  when 
Edith  was  young  and  sang  that  very  song.  Moving  her  chair  so 
that  she  could  command  a  better  view  of  the  back  porch  where 
Gertie  sat,  she  noticed  for  the  first  time  how  very  pretty  she 
was.  She  was  rather  small  for  her  age,  and  had  a  round,  sweet 
face,  with  a  complexion  like  wax,  and  the  clearest,  sunniest  blue 
eyes,  which  seemed  fairly  to  dance  when  she  was  pleased,  and 
again  were  so  dreamy  and  indescribably  sad  in  their  expression 
as  if  the  remembrance  of  some  great  sorrow  had  left  its  shad- 
ows in  them.  The  long,  thick  eyelashes,  and  heavy  arched 
brows  gave  them  the  appearance  of  being  much  darker  than 
they  really  were,  and  when  the  lids  were  raised  one  was  sur- 
prised to  find  them  just  the  color  of  the  summer  sky  on  a  clear, 
balmy  day.  But  Gertie's  hair  was  her  greatest  point  of  beauty, 
her  bright,  wavy  hair  which  in  her  babyhood  must  have  been  al- 
most red,  but  which  now  was  auburn,  with  a  shading  of  gold  in 
it.  Taken  altogether,  she  was  a  very  beautiful  child,  and  one 
whom  strangers  always  noticed  and  commented  upon,  and  even 
Mrs.  Barrett,  as  she  sat  watching  her,  felt  a  sudden  throb  of 
interest  in  her,  and  thought  of  another  little  one,  who  might 
have  called  her  grandma  and  made  her  old  age  happy. 

"  Gertie,"  she  said,  after  a  motnent,  "  come  here,  please.  I 
want  to  talk  with  you." 

Startled  by  the  voice  and  a  little  surprised  to  be  addressed 
by  the  cold,  quiet  woman  who  had  never  before  evinced  the 
slightest  interest  in  her  or  scarcely  spoken  to  her,  Gertie  arose, 
and  coming  timidly  to  Airs.  Barrett's  side,  stood  waiting  for  her 
to  speak. 

"  Gertie,"  Mrs.  Barrett  began,  "  have  you  always  lived  in 
London  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  but  not  with  auntie,"  was  Gertie's  reply  :  and 
Mrs.  Barrett  continued  :  "  With  whom  then  did  you  live  ?  " 

"With  my  mamma,  who  died  when  I  was  two  years  old," 
was  the  prompt  answer;  and  Mrs.  Barrett  went  on  :  "Had 
you  no  father  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  but — but ;  "  the  child  hesitated  a  little  and 

blushed  painfully,  then  added,  "he  didn't  like  me  much,  I 


86  MRS.    BARRETTS  LODGERS. 

guess,  and  when  the  new  mother  came,  it  was  very  bad,  and 
so  auntie,  who  isn't  my  auntie,  you  know,  only  she  lived  there 
and  liked  me,  took  me  for  her  own  little  girl,  and  I've  been  so 
happy  with  her,  though  mamma's  house  was  much  bigger  and 
nicer  than  any  we  have  had  since,  and  there  were  servants 
there  just  as  there  are  at  (pakwood,  only  not  so  many.  But  I 
like  living  with  auntie  best." 

Mrs.  Barrett  was  interested  now,  and  was  about  to  question 
the  child  further  of  that  home  like  Oakwood,  when  Mrs. 
Rogers  appeared  and  called  the  little  girl  away.  That  after- 
noon Mrs.  Barrett  was  attacked  with  a  nervous  headache  which 
was  so  severe  as  to  send  her  to  her  bed,  where  she  lay  with  her 
eyes  closed  and  moaning  occasionally,  when  a  light  footstep 
crossed  the  floor,  and  a  low,  sweet  voice  said  :  "You  are  real 
sick,  aren't  you  ?  May  I  do  something  for  you  ?  "  and  before 
Mrs.  Barrett  could  speak,  two  soft  hands  were  pressed  upon 
her  aching  head,  which  they  rubbed  and  caressed  until  the 
throbbing  ceased  entirely,  and  the  pain  was  less  hard  to  bear. 
Gertie  was  a  natural  nurse,  and  she  smoothed  the  lady's  pillow, 
and  folded  up  a  shawl  and  put  it  away  and  adjusted  the  shut- 
ters to  exclude  the  light  and  still  admit  the  air,  and  did  it  all  so 
quietly  and  noiselessly  that  Airs.  Barrett  would  hardly  have 
known  she  was  there. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  "  and  I  thank  you  so  much, 
but  don't  trouble  yourself  any  more.  I  shall  do  very  well  now.1' 

"  Oh,  I  like  to  take  care  of  you,"  Gertie  answered.  "  It's 
funny  I  know,  but  you  see  I  make  believe  I  am  caring  for  my 
grandma.  I  have  one  somewhere,  auntie  says,  although  I  never 
saw  her,  and  I  guess  she  don't  like  me  very  well." 

"  Not  like  you  /  "  Mrs.  Barrett  exclaimed.  "  How  can  she 
help  it  ?  " 

"You  see  she  don't  know  me,"  Gertie  answered.  "If  she 
did,  maybe  she  would.  Do  you  like  me  ?  " 

The  question  was  put  timidly,  and  the  little  face  was  very 
grave  until  the  answer  came,  "  Yes,  very  much ; "  then  it 
flushed  all  over,  and  the  blue  eyes  shone  like  stars  while  the 
warm  red  lips  touched  Mrs.  Barrett's  cheek  so  lovingly,  as  Ger- 


COLONEL  SCHUYLER  RETURNS.  8^ 

tie  exclaimed  :  "  I  am  so  glad.  I  want  to  be  liked.  I  want 
everybody  to  like  me." 

A  desire  to  be  loved  was  a  part  of  Gertie  s  nature,  and  with 
it  she  seemed  to  possess  the  faculty  of  making  everybody  love 
her,  even  to  Mrs.  Barrett,  who,  after  that  day,  was  exceedingly 
kind  to  the  little  girl,  and  ceased  to  care  because  she  was  an  oc' 
citpant  of  Edith's  room.  That  there  was  some  history  connected 
with  her  she  was  sure,  but  no  questioning  on  her  part  availed  to 
elicit  any  more  information  than  had  been  volunteered  during 
their  first  interview.  Mrs.  Rogers  must  have  cautioned  Gertie 
not  to  talk  of  her  parents  and  old  home,  for  she  was  very  reti- 
cent, and  answered  evasively  whenever  Mrs.  Barrett  broached 
the  subject  to  her,  as  she  did  once  or  twice. 

"  Auntie  can  tell  you,"  was  her  reply,  when  asked  where  her 
father  had  lived,  and  as  Mrs.  Barrett  did  not  care  to  talk  to 
Mrs.  Rogers,  she  knew  nothing  definite  of  little  Gertie  West- 
brooke  when  Edith  came  to  see  her  and  brought  news  of  her 
rejection  of  the  colonel. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

COLONEL    SCHUYLER    RETURNS. 

OAKWOOD,  May  2$th,  18 — . 

OLONEL  SCHUYLER :— Your  sister,  Mrs.  Sinclair, 
is  lying  very  low,  and  desires  to  see  you  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"Respectfully,  EDITH  LYLE." 

This  short  epistle  found  Col.  Schuyler  in  Florence,  and 
brought  him  back  to  England  at  once.  During  the  winter  and 
the  early  spring  Mrs.  Sinclair  had  been  failing,  and  when  May 
came,  the  change  in  her  for  the  worse  was  so  perceptible  that 
she  asked  Edith  to  write  for  her  brother,  whom  she  wished  to 
see  once  more.  To  Edith  the  thought  of  losing  her  kind  mis- 
tress was  terrible,  for,  aside  from  the  genuine  love  she  bore  the 


88  COLONEL  SCHUYLER  RETURNS. 

lady,  she  knew  that  losing  her  involved  also  the  loss  of  the  home 
where  she  had  been  so  happy,  and  she  dreaded  to  encounter 
the  curious  suspicions  she  would  have  to  meet  alone  and 
unprotected. 

"  What  will  you  do  when  I  am  gone  ?  "  Mrs.  Sinclair  said  to 
her  one  day  when  speaking  of  her  approaching  decease,  and  as 
Edith  made  no  reply,  except  to  cover  her  face  with  her  fingers, 
through  which  the  tears  trickled  slowly,  she  went  on  :  "  You 
seem  to  me  like  a  daughter,  and  I  shrink  from  the  thought  of 
leaving  you  alone.  If  it  were  possible  I  would  make  you  inde- 
pendent, but  at  my  death  the  Oakwood  property  reverts  to  a 
nephew  of  my  husband's,  and  I  cannot  control  it.  I  can, 
however,  do  something  for  you,  and  will.  Edith,  I  have  never 
mentioned  the  subject  to  you  before, — but,  was  there  not, — did 
not  my  brother  offer  himself  to  you  last  summer  when  he  was 
here?" 

"Yes,"  came  faintly  from  Edith;  and  Mrs.  Sinclair  con- 
tinued : 

"And  you  refused  him,  subject,  I  believe,  to  a  reconsidera- 
tion ?  " 

"  I  refused  him,  and  with  no  thought  of  reconsideration  on 
my  part.  My  decision  was  final,"  Edith  said ;  and  Mrs.  Sinclair 
continued: 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  dictate  in  such  matters,  perhaps,  but  it 
seems  to  me  you  will  do  well  to  think  of  it  again  should  he 
renew  the  matter  on  his  return.  It  is  an  offer  which  any 
woman  should  consider  seriously  before  rejecting  it.  I  know 
he  can  make  you  happy,  and  you  would  far  better  be  his  hon- 
ored wife  even  if  he  is  many  years  your  senior,  than  be  cast 
upon  the  world  with  your  face  and  manner  as  a  lure  to  evil- 
minded  men,  who  h'old  a  governess  as  only  fair  spoil." 

"  I  know  it ;  I  know  all  that,  and  feel  it  so  keenly,"  Edith 
answered,  and  for  an  instant  there  came  over  her  such  a  feeling 
of  utter  loneliness  and  desolation,  and  such  a  shrinking  from 
the  future  which  might  be  to  her  what  the  past  had  been  until 
she  knew  Mrs.  Sinclair,  that  she  would  almost  have  taken 
Colonel  Schuyler  had  he  been  there  then. 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  RETURNS.  89 

Smothering  her  sobs  and  commanding  her  voice  as  well  as 
she  could,  she  continued  : 

"  I  would  rather  die  than  meet  again  what  I  have  met  in  the 
families  where  I  was  employed  before  I  knew  you,  but  mother 
is  poor  and  growing  old,  and  I  must  do  something." 

"  Why  not  take  the  home  offered  you  ?  "  Mrs.  Sinclair  asked, 
while  Edith  sat  motionless  as  a  stone,  her  face  as  white  as 
ashes,  and  that  horrid  sensation  in  her  throat  which  kept  her 
from  uttering  a  word. 

When  at  last  she  could  speak  she  astonished  Mrs.  Sinclair 
by  falling  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  and  crying  out : 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Sinclair,  you  do  not  know,  you  cannot  guess  what 
and  who  I  am,  or  you  would  know  that  could  never  be.  For- 
give me,  I  have  been  an  impostor  all  these  years,  but  now  I 
must  speak  and  tell  the  whole,  and  then  you  shall  judge  if  your 
proud  brother,  knowing  all,  would  take  me  for  his  bride." 

Twenty  minutes  passed,  and  then  Edith  sat,  paler  and  more 
motionless,  if  possible,  than  before,  her  hands  pressed  tightly 
together,  and  her  eyes  cast  down  as  if  afraid  to  meet  the  won- 
dering gaze  fixed  upon  her.  She  had  withheld  nothing,  and 
Mrs.  Sinclair  knew  the  entire  story,  from  the  hasty  marriage  in 
New  York,  up  to  the  day  when  the  message  came  that  the 
little  baby  was  dead.  She  had  -been  astonished  and  shocked, 
and  indignant  with  the  mother  rather  than  with  the  daughter, 
who,  she  readily  saw,  had  been  only  a'  tool  in  an  ambitious, 
heartless  woman's  hands,  and  whom  she  could  forgive  for 
a  deception  which  had  wronged  no  one  and  in  which  no 
one  but  herself  was  as  yet  involved.  So,  when  at  last  she 
spoke,  her  voice  was  just  as  kind  and  gentle  as  of  old,  as  she 
said  : 

"  My  poor  child,  yours  is  a  strange  experience  for  one  so 
young.  Truth  is  always  best,  and  it  would  have  been  just  as 
well  if  it  had  been  confessed  at  first.  I  am  glad  you  have  told 
me ;  and  if  my  brother  asks  you  again,  as  I  think  he  will,  you 
must  tell  him.  It  may  make  a  difference  with  him.  I  do  not 
know.  Certainly  it  would,  if  withheld  till  after  marriage.  That 
deception  he  would  hardly  forgive.  Leave  me  now,  please  ;  I 


90  COLONEL  SCHUYBER  RETURNS. 

am  very  tired,  and  you,  too,  need  the  open  air  after  your  great 
excitement." 

The  next  day  Col.  Schuyler  came  alone,  as  Godfrey  was  in 
Russia.  But  Mrs.  Sinclair  was  too  weak  to  talk  much,  and 
could  only  look  her  pleasure  at  her  brothers  presence.  Three 
days  after  she  died,  with  her  head  on  Col.  Schuyler' s  bosom  and 
Edith  kneeling  at  her  side.  Just  at  the  last  she  had  taken  the , 
girl's  hand,  arid  putting  it  in  that  of  her  brother  had  whis- 
pered : 

"  Take  care  of  her,  Howard.  She  is  worthy,  and  has  been 
like  a  daughter  to  me." 

"I  will,"  he  answered,  emphatically,  as  his  hand  closed 
tightly  over  that  of  Edith,  who  felt  as  if  that  hand-clasp  bound 
her  to  the  fate  which  she  had  no  longer  power  to  resist. 

Immediately  after  the  funeral  she  returned  to  her  mother's 
cottage,  but  before  she  went  Col.  Schuyler  asked  for  a  private 
interview,  which  she  granted  with  a  feeling  that  it  was  of  no  use 
to  straggle  against  what  was  inevitable.  Col.  Schuyler  had 
tried  to  forget  her  during  his  travels ;  had  tried  to  reason  with 
himself  that  a  poor  unknown  girl,  who  was  his  sister's  hired  com- 
panion, was  not  a  fitting  match  for  a  Schuyler  whose  first  wife 
had  been  a  Rossiter.  But  one  thought  of  the  beautiful  face, 
and  of  the  sweet  voice  which  had  sung  to  him  in  the  twilight 
was  sufficient  to  break  down  every  barrier  of  pride  and  make 
him  willing  to  sacrifice  a  great  deal  for  the  sake  of  securing  her. 
And  so  it  was  that  on  his  return  to  England  he  was  resolved  to 
renew  the  offer  once  made  and  rejected,  and  to  take  no  refusal 
this  time.  His  sister  approved  his  choice,  and  had  sanctioned 
it  with  her  dying  breath,  and  thus  reassured  he  went  to  Edith 
with  a  feeling  of  security  as  to  the  result  of  the  interview,  which 
manifested  itself  somewhat  in  his  manner,  and  made  Edith  feel 
more  and  more  how  helpless  she  was,  and  how  certain  it  was 
that  her  secret  must  be  told. 

"  Edith,"  he  began  in  his  stiff  way,  as  he  took  a  seat  beside 
her,  "just  before  I  left  Oakwood  last  August,  I  held  a  con- 
versation with  you  which  I  know  you  have  not  forgotten.  I 
asked  you  to  be  my  wife,  and  you  asked  me  if  I  loved  you.  I 


COLONEL  SCHUYLER  RETURNS.  9! 

could  not  say  yes,  then,  for  though  I  admired  and  respected, 
and  wanted  you,  I  did  not  experience  any  of  those  ecstatic 
thrills  of  which  we  read  in  books,  and  which  very  young  people 
call  love.  And  even  now," — he  paused  a  moment  and  hesi- 
tated, and  a  flush  spread  itself  over  his  face,  "  even  now  I 
may  not  feel  as  a  younger  man  would  in  similar  circumstan-' 
ces ;  but  when  I  tell  you  that  you  have  scarcely  been  out  of 
my  mind  for  a  moment  during  my  absence,  that  I  have  dreamed 
of  you  night  and  day,  and  that  in  all  the  world  there  is  nothing 
I  desire  so  much  as  I  desire  you,  I  think  you  will  be  satisfied 
that  if  I  do  not  love  you  as  you  have  imagined  you  might  be 
loved,  I  am  in  a  fair  way  to  do  so,  if  I  receive  a  little  encour- 
agement." 

He  paused,  but  Edith  did  not  speak,  and  sat  before  him  with 
her  long  eyelashes  cast  down  and  her  hands  working  nervously 
together.  She  knew  he  was  sincere,  though  his  wooing  was  so 
different  from  what  Abelard's  had  been,  or  what  Godfrey's 
would  be  were  he  in  his  father's  place.  But  Godfrey  was 
young,  and  Abelard  had  been  young,  too,  and  both  were  differ- 
ent from  this  cold,  proud  man  of  forty,  who  had  unbent  his 
dignity  so  much,  and  who  seemed  so  earnest,  and  even  tender 
as  he  went  on  to  tell  her  of  all  she  had  to  gain  if  she  would  go 
with  him  to  the  home  he  would  make  more  beautiful  than  it 
already  was,  for  her  sake.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  picture  he 
drew  of  the  future,  but  it  did  not  move  Edith  one  whit,  because 
she  felt  certain  that  this  life  could  not  be  hers  if  she  told  him 
all,  as  she  must  surely  tell  him,  if  he  persisted  in  his  suit.  She 
admitted  to  him  that  he  was  not  disagreeable  to  her ;  that  she 
found  his  society  pleasant ;  that  she  believed  him  to  be  a  man 
of  honor,  who  would  try  to  make  her  happy  ;  and  when  he  asked 
why  she  hesitated,  she  opened  her  lips  to  tell  him,  but  could 
not  speak  the  words. 

"  I  can  write  them  better,"  she  thought,  and  when  she  could 
command  her  voice,  she  said  to  him  :  "  Give  me  a  few  days,  a 
week,  in  which  to  think,  and  then  I  will  write  you  my  decision. 
I  know  you  honor  me,  and  I  thank  you  for  it,  and  believe  you 
sincere,  and  for  that  reason,  would  not  for  the  world  deceive 


92  EDITfTS  ANSWER. 

you.  I  have  something  to  tell  you  which  I  can  better  put  on 
paper.  Let  me  go  now,  for  I  feel  like  suffocating." 

She  spoke  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  and  her  face  was  so 
white,  that  Col.  Schuyler  felt  alarmed  lest  she  should  faint,  and 
passing  his  arm  around  her,  led  her  to  the  balcony  and  brought 
her  a  glass  of  water,  and  laid  his  hand  softly  on  her  hair,  and 
seemed  so  kind  and  thoughtful,  that  for  the  first  time  there 
awoke  in  Edith's  heart  a  throb  of  something  like  affection  for 
this  man  who  might  make  her  so  happy. 

"*Oh,  if  I  only  could  forget  the  past  and  accept  the  life  of- 
fered me,"  she  thought,  as  an  hour  later  he  put  her  into  the 
carriage  which  was  to  take  her  to  her  mother's,  and  then  press- 
ing her  hand  deferentially,  said  to  her  :  "  I  shall  await  your 
answer  with  a  great  deal  of  impatience,  and  shall  not  consent 
to  receive  an  unfavorable  one." 

He  lifted  his  hat,  and  the  carriage  drove  away  to  Caledonia 
Street,  where  her  mother  was  expecting  her. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
EDITH'S  ANSWER. 

|ERTIE  WESTBROOKE  had  gone  to  the  country  with 
Mrs.  Rogers  for  a  few  weeks,  and  Edith  occupied  her 
old  room,  and  slept  in  the  child's  bed,  and  dreamed 
strange  things  which  haunted  her  waking  hours,  and  sent  her 
heart  back  to  the  little  one  lost  long  ago  with  a  yearning  such 
as  she  had  not  felt  in  years.  And  with  this  pain,  this  sense  of 
loss  still  clinging  to  her,  she  sat  down  one  morning  and  wrote 
the  story  of  her  life,  word  for  word,  keeping  nothing  back  and 
finishing  by  saying : 

"  If,  after  knowing  all  this,  you  still  wish  me  to  be  your  wife, 
I  will  not  refuse,  but  will  do  my  duty  faithfully,  so  help  me 
Heaven  !" 

She  showed  the  letter  to  her  mother,  who,  finding  that  it  was 


EDITH'S  ANSWER.  93 

useless  to  oppose  her  daughter,  offered  to  take  it  to  Oakwood 
herself. 

"  Better  so  than  to  trust  it  to  the  post,"  she  said.  "  Besides, 
it  is  well  for  me  to  be  there  to  answer  any  questions  he  may 
ask,  and  to  take  the  blame  wholly  upon  myself,  as  I  deserve." 

Edith  did  not  refuse.  She  was  rather  glad  than  otherwise 
to  have  her  mother  go  as  a  kind  of  mediator  between  her- 
self and  the  man  whom  she  began  to  find  it  would  be  a  little 
hard  to  lose.  Accordingly  Mrs.  Barrett  arrayed  herself  in  her 
deepest  mourning,  and  with  her  thick  veil  drawn  over  her  face, 
started  for  Oakwood  and  asked  for  Colonel  Schuyler.  He  had 
passed  the  four  days  drearily  enough,  and  in  his  impatience  had 
more  than  once  resolved  to  go  to  Caledonia  Street,  and  claim 
Edith's  answer.  But  he  had  promised  her  not  to  do  so,  and  he 
remained  at  Oakwood  in  a  state  of  great  suspense,  until  the 
day  when  a  lady  was  announced  as  wishing  to  see  him. 

"  It  surely  cannot  be  Edith,"  he  thought,  as  he  started  for  the 
parlor,  where  the  closely- veiled  figure  arose  and  introduced  it- 
self as  "  Mrs.  Dr.  Barrett,  mother  of  Miss  Lyle." 

Colonel  Schuyler  was  one  of  the  preoccupied  kind  of  men 
who  take  little  note  of  what  does  not  directly  concern  them, 
and  though  he  must  have  heard  the  name  of  Edith's  mother,  he 
had  paid  no  attention  to  it,  or  thought  strange  that  it  was  not 
Lyle.  Now,  however,  he  noticed  it,  and  with  only  a  stiff  bow 
to  the  lady  said  : 

"Barrett?  Mrs.  Barrett?  And  you  Miss  Lyle's  mother? 
How  is  that  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  twice  married,  and  my  last  husband  was  Dr. 
Barrett,"  was  the  reply,  which  satisfied  the  colonel,  who  took  a 
seat  at  some  distance  from  his  visitor  and  waited  for  her  to  com- 
municate her  business. 

Evidently  it  was  a  little  awkward  for  her  to  do  so,  for  she  hes- 
itated and  fidgeted  in  her  chair  and  grew  very  red  under  her 
black  veil,  and  wished  Colonel  Schuyler  would  not  scan  her  as 
curiously  as  he  was  doing.  At  last,  with  a  great  effort,  she  began  : 

"  My  daughter  has  told  me  all  that  has  passed  between  you, 
and  I  am  come  with  a  message  from  her." 


94  EDITHS  ANSWER. 

"  A  message ! "  Col.  Schuyler  repeated,  in  some  surprise ; 
"  I  supposed  she  was  to  write." 

He  did  not  like  this  interference  by  a  third  person,  and  that 
person  a  woman,  whom  his  sister  had  described  as  "  pushing 
and  inquisitive,"  and  for  whom  he  had  conceived  a  prejudice 
without  knowing  why.  She  was  very  deferential,  almost  cring- 
ing in  her  manner,  and  her  voice  was  apologetic  in  its  tone,  as 
she  replied  : 

"  Yes,  I  know,  she  meant  to  send  a  letter,  and  she  did  com- 
mence one  yesterday,  but  grew  so  nervous  over  it  that  she 
finally  gave  it  up,  and  allowed  me  to  come  instead." 

Here  she  stopped  a  moment,  and  her  hands  worked  together 
restlessly  while  Col.  Schuyler,  in  haste  to  know  the  worst,  if 
worst  there  were,  said  stiffly : 

"  Well,  you  are  here,  then,  to  say  your  daughter  has  refused 
me  ; "  and  as  he  spoke  the  words,  he  was  conscious  of  a  sharp 
pang  which  told  him  how  hard  such  news  would  be  to  bear, 
and  when  Mrs.  Barrett  continued,  "  No,  not  to  tell  you  that," 
the  revulsion  of  feeling  was  so  great  that,  forgetful  of  his  aversion 
for  his  prospective  mother-in-law,  he  arose  and  came  near  to 
her,  while  she  continued  : 

"  Her  acceptance  depends  wholly  upon  yourself,  and  how  you 
take  the  story  I  am  here  to  tell,  and  which  she  could  not  write. 
Some  years  ago,  when  Edith  was  very  young,  scarcely  fifteen, 
she  fell  in  love  with  a  well-meaning,  good-looking  youth,  greatly 
her  inferior  in  the  social  scale,  though  perfectly  respectable,  I 
believe.  Of  course,  I  opposed  it,  both  on  account  of  her  ex- 
treme youth  and  because,  as  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  with 
good  family  blood,  she  ought  to  do  better.  Without  my  knowl- 
edge, however,  they  were  engaged,  and  would  have  been 
married  if  he  had  not  been  suddenly  killed.  It  was  a  terrible 
shock  to  Edith,  and  one  from  which  she  has  never  quite  re- 
covered. You  know  something  of  that  spasmodic  affection  of 
her  throat  which  attacks  her  at  times.  It  came  upon  her  then, 
and  now  when  an  allusion  is  made  to  the  violent  death  of  any 
one,  or  she  is  over-excited,  she  experiences  the  same  peculiar 
sensation,  so  that  I  try  to  keep  her  as  quiet  as  possible,  and 


EDITH'S  ANSWER.  95 

when  I  found  that  writing  to  you  about  it,  as  she  felt  she  must, 
was  affecting  her  so  much,  I  persuaded  her  to  desist  and  let  me 
come  instead.  She  is  morbidly  conscientious,  and  would  not 
for  the  world  marry  you  until  you  knew  all  about  her  past  life. 
She  loved  the  young  man  with  such  love  as  very  young  girls 
feel ;  but  that  was  years  ago,  and  now  I  do  not  believe  she 
would  marry  him  if  he  were  living.  She  bade  me  tell  you 
everything,  and  say  that  if,  after  hearing  it,  you  still  wished  her 
to  be  your  wife,  she  would  do  her  best  to  make  you  happy, 
stipulating  only  that  no  reference  shall  ever  be  made  to  a  past 
which  it  is  her  duty  and  wish  to  forget." 

Colonel  Schuyler  was  not  much  given  to  talking  at  any  time, 
and  he  surely  had  no  desire  to  speak  to  \i\sfiancee  of  her  dead 
love.  Could  he  have  had  his  choice  in  the  matter  there  should 
have  been  no  dead  love  between  himself  and  Edith,  but  when 
he  reflected  that  he  could  not  offer  her  his  first  affection,  for 
that  was  buried  in  Emily's  grave,  he  felt  that  it  was  not  for  him 
to  object  to  this  poor,  unknown  youth  who  had  been  obliging 
enough  to  die  and  leave  Edith  free.  A  few  times  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  room,  then  stopping  suddenly  before  the 
anxious  woman,  he  said,  "  Your  daughter  once  hinted  to  me 
that  there  was  something  she  must  tell  me,  and  as  I  knew  her 
life  must  have  been  pure  and  innocent  as  a  babe's,  I  supposed 
it  was  a  matter  of  this  kind,  and  am  prepared  to  overlook  it, 
though  of  course  I  would  rather  have  been  the  first  to  move  her 
maiden  heart.  I  will  write  her  a  few  lines  if  you  will  wait  here, 
and  this  afternoon  or  evening  I  shall  see  her." 

He  bowed  himself  from  the  room,  leaving  Mrs.  Barrett  in  a 
state  of  fearful  suspense  as  to  what  he  might  write  to  Edith,  and 
whether  her  wicked  duplicity  would  at  once  be  discovered.  In 
.'nor  desire  for  Edith's  advancement  she  was  willing  to  do  any- 
thing, and  the  slight  put  upon  herself  was  nothing  to  her  now. 
She-  would  rather  have  gone  with  Edith  to  her  beautiful  home  if 
she  could,  but  as  she  could  not  she  accepted  the  condition,  and 
was  just  as  eager  for  Edith  to  accept  the  colonel  as  if  she  too 
were  to  share  in  the  greatness.  With  Edith  she  felt  almost  cer- 
tain that  a  full  confession  of  the  past  would  at  once  end  every- 


96  EDITH'S  ANSWER. 

thing,  for  Colonel  Schuyler  would  hardly  marry  the  widow  of 
one  of  his  workmen,  and  she  resolved  that  he  should  not  know 
it,  at  least  not  in  time  to  prevent  the  marriage.  With  Edith  his 
wife  he  could  not  help  himself,  and  would  make  the  best  of  it, 
if  by  chance  it  came  to  his  knowledge,  she  reasoned,  and  when 
she  started  for  Oakwood  with  Edith's  letter  it  was  with  no  in-J 
tention  of  giving  it  to  him.  She  knew  just  what  she  would  say 
to  him,  and  she  said  it,  and  then  waited  the  result. 

Fifteen  minutes  went  by  and  then  he  came  back  to  her,  and, 
handing  her  a  note,  said,  "  This  is  my  message  to  Miss  Lyle. 
I  shall  see  her  this  evening  and  arrange  our  plans." 

Then  he  meant  to  go  on  with  it,  and  Mrs.  Barrett  could  al- 
most have  fallen  at  his  feet  and  thanked  him  for  raising  her 
daughter  to  the  position  she  had  sinned  so  greatly  to  secure  for 
her,  but  the  colonel's  proud,  cold  manner  kept  her  quiet,  and 
she  only  said,  as  she  took  the  note  : 

"  Thank  you,  sir  ;  and  please  remember  not  to  allude  to  the 
past,  when  you  see  her.  She  wished  that  particularly, — it  ex- 
cites her  so  much." 

"  I  shall  be  careful  on  that  point,"  he  said,  and  with  another 
bow  he  dismissed  her  from  the  room,  wondering  why  he 
breathed  so  much  freer  with  that  woman  gone,  and  what  it  was 
about  her  which  affected  him  so  unpleasantly. 

"  I  know  Edith  is  not  like  her  in  the  least,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
will  take  care  to  remove  her  from  that  influence  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Two  weeks  will  not  be  too  soon  for  our  marriage,  and 
when  the  Atlantic  rolls  between  us  I  shall  be  done  with  Mrs. 
Barrett  forever." 

Meantime  Mrs.  Barrett  was  on  her  way  to  London,  and  con- 
gratulating herself  upon  the  good  luck  which  had  not  dried  the 
seal  of  the  note  the  colonel  gave  her.  Had  it  been  otherwise 
she  would  have  opened  it  all  the  same  ;  but  Satan,  whose  ser- 
vant she  certainly  was,  was  playing  into  her  hands,  and  the  en- 
velope held  together  so  slightly  that  she  opened  it  with  per- 
fect ease,  and  taking  out  the  letter,  read  it  through  with  an  im- 
mense amount  of  satisfaction,  as  she  saw  that  she  could  show  it 
to  her  daughter  and  not  betray  herself. 


'EDITH'S  ANSWER.  97 

"  My  dear  Edith,"  it  began,  "  do  not  think  I  prize  you  less 
on  account  of  anything  in  the  past,  though  of  course  I  would 
rather  that  past  had  never  been  ;  but  it  is  not  for  me,  who  have 
loved  and  lost  a  wife,  to  object  because  of  your  early  love,  whose 
tragical  death  affected  you  so  strangely.  I  trust  you  will  over- 
come that  difficulty  in  time,  and  be  assured,  that  both  for  your 
sake  and  my  own,  I  shall  never  in  any  way  allude  to  the  past, 
nor  is  it  necessary  that  I  should  do  so.  You  have  been  frank 
and  truthful  with  me,  and  I  thank  you  for  it,  and  value  you  all 
the  more.  Had  it  come  to  me  later,  I  might  have  found  it 
harder  to  overlook  than  I  do  now.  You  are  very  young,  and 
your  concealment  from  your  mother  is  all  I  can  see  for  which 
to  blame  you  in  the  least.  Dear  Edith,  let  it  all  be  as  if  it 
never  had  been,  and  go  with  me  as  my  wife.  I  want  you  more 
than  ever,  and  I  cannot  give  you  up  for  a  trifle.  I  will  see 
you  to-night  and  arrange  for  the  wedding,  which  must  take 
place  at  once,  as  I  have  already  been  absent  too  long  from 
home,  where  I  am  needed  so  much,  and  where  there  will  be  a 
warm  welcome  for  you. 

"  Good-by,  darling,  till  to-night. 

"  Yours,  forever,  HOWARD  SCHUYLER." 

Had  there  been  anything  in  this  letter  to  awaken  a  suspicion 
in  Edith's  mind  of  foul  play  on  the  part  of  her  mother,  Mrs. 
Barrett  would  have  unhesitatingly  withheld  it  from  her  and 
palmed  off  some  story  of  her  own.  But  there  was  nothing,  and 
she  hastened  home  to  Edith,  whom  she  found  sitting  listlessly 
in  her  room  with  Gertie  Westbrooke's  things  everywhere  around 
her,  and  a  look  of  apathy  upon  her  face,  as  if  she  were  fully  as- 
sured of  the  nature  of  her  mother's  tidings.  She  knew  Colonel 
Schuyler  could  not  forgive,  and  now  that  the  die  was  cast,  and 
her  chance  for  something  better  than  a  governess'  life  lost  for- 
ever, as  she  believed,  she  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  pain  and 
weariness,  and  her  heart  cried  out  for  what  she  must  not 
have. 

As  her  mother  entered  the  room  she  lifted  her  eyes  languidly, 
but  s.iid  nothing  until  she  read  the  letter,  which  made  her 
5 


98  EDITH'S  ANSWERS 

pulse  quicken  with  a  new  hope  and  a  restful  feeling  she  had  not 
known  in  years. 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Did  you  talk  with 
him  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it,  please." 

And  Mrs.  Barrett  told  her  just  what  it  seemed  best  to  tell, 
and  said  she  had  taken  the  blame  upon  herself  for  the  secrecy 
since  Abelard's  death,  and  that  though  he  was,  of  course,  sur- 
prised and  shocked,  he  soon  recovered  himself,  and  showed 
how  much  he  was  in  love  by  his  readiness  to  forgive  and  let  the 
past  fade  into  oblivion. 

To  say  that  Mrs.  Barrett's  conscience  did  not  disturb  her  a 
little  as  she  thus  told  lie  after  lie  would  not  be  true  ;  but  she  had 
committed  herself  too  far  to  stop  now,  and  then  it  was  for  her 
interest  to  prevent  any  conversation  with  regard  to  the  past 
between  the  Colonel  and  Edith,  and  she  continued : 

"  Oh,  one  thing  more  I  must  tell  you.  Possibly  Colonel 
Schuyler  may  have  said  something  of  the  kind  in  his  letter.  He 
is  quite  as  averse  to  any  allusions  to  the  past  as  you  can  be, 
and  said  distinctly  that  he  did  not  wish  you  to  mention  the  sub- 
ject to  him.  He  is  satisfied,  and  that  is  enough." 

Edith  did  not  reply.  She  was  reading  the  note  again,  and 
feeling  a  little  hurt  and  disappointed  that  no  direct  mention  had 
been  made  of  Abelard. 

"  He  might  at  least  have  been  generous  enough  to  say  how 
grateful  he  was  to  him  for  having  saved  Godfrey's  life,"  she  said 
to  her  mother,  who  answered  : 

"He  did  say  that  to  me,  and  spoke  very  feelingly  of  him, 
and  was  glad  he  honored  his  memory  as  he  did ;  but  you  know 
how  proud  he  is,  and  must  understand  that  it  would  grate  upon 
his  pride  to  think  his  bride  elect  had  been  the  wife  of  his 
servant.  I  think  myself  it  would  be  bad  taste  in  him  to  go  to 
lauding  the  dead  husband  of  the  woman  he  intends  to  make  his 
wife.  You  surely  have  no  desire  to  praise  the  Lady  Emily,  or 
even  to  talk  of  her,  and  you  must  give  him  the  same  liberty  of 
reticence." 

Edith  was  silenced  and  satisfied.  If  Colonel  Schuyler  had 
praised  her  husband  to  her  mother,  that  was  enough,  and  she 


EDITirS  ANSWER.  99 

appreciated  the  motives  which  kept  him  silent  to  her,  and  as 
the  day  wore  on  there  crept  into  her  heart  a  feeling  of  rest,  and 
content,  and  satisfaction  which  she  had  never  known  before. 
Colonel  Schuyler  was  a  man  whom  she  thoroughly  respected 
and  liked,  and  whom  in  time  she  might  learn  to  love  if  she 
could  overcome  the  feeling  of  awe  with  which  his  presence 
inspired  her.  She  knew  he  would  try  to  make  her  happy,  and 
she  more  than  once  found  herself  thinking  with  pleasing  antici- 
pations of  the  beautiful  home  beyond  the  sea  and  the  new  life 
awaiting  her.  Never  since  the  days  when  she  arrayed  herself 
for  the  coining  of  Abelard  had  she  felt  as  much  real  interest  in 
her  dress  as  she  did  now  when  making  herself  ready  for  her 
lover.  Choosing  a  pretty  robe  of  white  which  had  been  made 
in  Paris,  she  fastened  a  knot  of  lavender  ribbon  at  her  throat, 
and  placing  a  white  rose  in  her  hair,  was  ready  for  him  when, 
he  came  at  last.  His  wooing  of  Emily  Rossiter  had  been  the 
stiffest  kind  of  an  affair,  and  this,  his  second  love-making,  was 
stiff  and  formal  too,  as  became  the  man.  Still  there  was  in  iiis 
manner  genuine  kindness,  and  even  tenderness,  as  he  took 
Edith's  hands  in  his,  and  said : 

"Are  these  dear  little  hands  mine?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  still  wish  to  have  them,"  Edith  answered ;  and 
then  he  bent  down  and  kissed  them  very  devoutly,  as  if  fearful 
lest  his  breath  should  blow  them  away. 

This  was  a  great  advance  on  his  manner  with  Emily.  To  her 
he  had  merely  said  "  This  little  hand  is  mine,"  and  had  put 
it  respectfully  back  into  her  lap,  reserving  his  right  to  kiss  her, 
until  she  was  his  wife,  while  in  Edith's  case  he  kissed  the  hands 
he  claimed  as  his,  and  held  them  in  his  own  a  little  awkwardly, 
it  is  true,  as  if  he  did  not  quite  know  what  he  was  doing,  but 
still  held  them  and  looked  at  them,  and  turned  them  over,  and 
thought  how  shapely  and  pretty  and  white  they  were,  and  how 
they  would  be  improved  with  the  jewels  he  meant  to  put  upon 
them.  And  she  would  be  improved,  too,  with  the  rich  apparel 
he  would  give  her;  and  his  heart  began  to  swell  with  pride 
as  he  saw  in  his  home,  and  at  his  table,  and  in  society,  the 
beautiful  bride,  who  was  sure  to  be  a  success.  And,  as  he 


loo  EDITH'S  ANSWER, 

talked  to  her,  and  watched  the  color  mount  into  her  cheeks, 
and  saw  the  coy  drooping  of  her  eyes,  and  felt  her  warm  breath 
upon  his  face,  he  was  conscious  of  being  moved  as  he  had 
never  been  moved  before,  and  his  words  and  tones  were  almost 
lover-like  as  he  talked  of  the  future,  and  all  he  meant  to  do 
to  make  her  happy.  And  only  once  was  there  the  slightest 
allusion  to  the  past,  and  then  Edith  said  to  him  :  "  And  you 
are  sure  that  you  do  not  care  for  what  has  made  me  so  un- 
happy ?  " 

"  Care  !  no.  I  told  you  as  much  in  my  letter.  That  is 
all  gone  by.  Don't  let  us  mention  it  now,  or  ever,"  he  said, 
as  he  wound  his  arm  around  Edith,  who  felt  that  she  might  in- 
deed forget  the  past,  and  take  the  good  offered  to  her  in  the 
new  life  coming. 

It  was  late  when  Col.  Schuyler  left  her  that  night,  and  be- 
fore he  went  he  had  arranged  everything  with  that  preci- 
sion which  marked  all  his  actions.  They  were  to  be  married 
very  quietly  within  the  next  three  weeks,  and  then,  after  a  short 
trip  into  the  country,  go  at  once  on  shipboard,  and  sail  for 
America.  The  bridal  outfit  would  come  from  Paris,  whither  he 
would  forward  his  order  the  next  day.  He  would  also  write  at 
once  to  Godfrey,  who  would  join  them  in  time  to  be  present 
at  the  ceremony.  There  were  to  be  no  invited  guests,  and 
only  a  simple  breakfast  at  Oakwood.  The  heir  waa  there  now, 
but  he  had  offered  the  hospitality  of  the  house  to  Col.  Schuyler 
for  as  long  a  time  as  he  chose  to  accept  it,  and  when  told  of  the 
projected  marriage,  had  asked  the  privilege  of  furnishing  the 
breakfast.  Thus  matters  were  arranged,  and  Edith,  who  had 
cared  and  thought  for  herself  so  long,  was  glad  to  leave  every- 
thing to  Col.  Schuyler  and  let  him  plan  and  think  for  her.  She 
was  beginning  to  like  him  very  much,  and  when  he  brought  her 
the  engagement  ring,  and  she  saw  the  superb  diamond  on  her 
finger,  she  felt  a  throb  of  pride  and  quiet  exultation  that  at 
last  the  ease  and  luxury  which  her  fine  tastes  fitted  her  to  ap- 
preciate and  enjoy  were  to  be  hers  without  stint  or  limit. 
That  morning,  too,  a  French  modiste  came  and  took  her  meas- 
ure, and  when  the  second  night  of  her  betrothal  closed  in,  the 


BREAKING    THE  NEWS. 


order  was  on  its  way  to  Paris  for  "  an  entire  outfit  for  a  young 
bride  \vhose  wealth  would  warrant  any  expenditure." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BREAKING  THE    NEWS. 

J1ODFREY  returned  to  Oakwood  two  weeks  before  the 
wedding,  and  brought  with  him  a  young  artist,  Robeit 
Macpherson,  whom  he  had  found  in  Rome,  and  who 
had  accompanied  him  to  Russia.  As  he  had  not  received  his 
father's  letter  he  was  ignorant  of  the  engagement,  and  Colonel 
Schuyler  blushed  like  a  school-boy,  and  stammered  and  hesi- 
tated, when  he  tried  to  tell  him.  Godfrey  had  asked  for  Miss 
Lyle,  and  the  colonel,  after  replying  that  she  was  with  her 
mother,  had  continued  : 

"  My  son,  you  may  be  surprised, — no,  you  can  hardly  be  sur- 
prised, knowing  her  as  you  do, — when  I  tell  you  that  I  am, — yes, 
I  am  about  to, — am  going  to, — give  you  a  new  mother.  Yes," 
and  the  colonel  walked  to  the  window  and  spat  on  a  rosebush 
outside,  and  wiped  his  face,  and  mustering  all  his  courage,  added  : 
"  Miss  Lyle  has  promised  to  be  my  wife,  and  you  will  agree 
with  me,  I  think,  that  she  is  a  remarkable, — yes,  a  very  remark- 
able woman." 

He  had  told  his  story,  and  waited  for  Godfrey's  reply,  which 
came  first  -in  a  low,  suppressed  whistle,  and  then  in  a  merry 
laugh  as  he  jumped  up,  and  giving  his  pants  a  violent  shake, 
said:  "I  agree  with  you,  father;  she  is  a  very  remarkable 
woman,  or  she  would  not  consent  to  be  my  mother  and  Jule's ; 
My !  won't  she  pick  her  eyes  out,  and  Aunt  Christine  will  help 
her.  Why,  she  meant  to  have  you  herself !  " 

"  Who,  Christine  ?  "  Colonel  Schuyler  said,  aghast  at  the  very 
idea  of  wedding  a  woman  whom  he  detested,  even  though  she 
was  a  Rossiter,  and  the  sister  of  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  she  has  set  her  cap  at  you  ever  since  mother  died, 
and  she  came  up  to  Hampstead  with  all  her  wraps  and  con- 


102  BREAKING    THE  NEWS. 

founded  drugs,  and  raised  Cain  generally,"  Godfrey  replied, 
and  his  father  smiled  a  pleased  kind  of  smile,  and,  man-like,  was 
conscious  of  a  new  interest  in  the  woman  who  had  "  set  her  cap 
for  him,"  while  at  the  same  time  he  felt  intense  satisfaction  in 
thinking  of  Edith  in  all  her  youth  and  brilliant  beauty,  and 
Comparing  her  with  Aunt  Christine,  whose  body  was  one  great 
receptacle  of  drugs,  and  who,  Godfrey  said,  wore  two  flannel 
wraps  in  the  summer,  and  four  in  the  winter,  besides  shawls  and 
Scarfs  innumerable. 

Godfrey's  preference  was  evidently  for  Edith,  and  so  his 
father  said  to  him  :  "  You  do  not  object.  You  like  Miss  Lyle, 
I  believe." 

"  Like  her  ?  Yes,  I  rather  think  I  do,  and  if  she'd  been 
younger,  or  I  older,  I'd  have  gone  for  her  myself.  She's  the 
most  splendid  woman  I  ever  saw,  but,  by  Jove,  I'm  sorry  for 
her,  though,  for  what  with  Aunt  Christine,  and  Alice,  and  Julia, 
and  Tiffe  and  Em,  she'll  have  a  sorry  time." 

The  colonel  frowned  darkly,  and  his  eyebrows  almost  met 
together  as  he  answered  with  great  dignity: 

"  Everybody  in  my  house  must  treat  my  wife  with  respect ; 
but,  Godfrey,  perhaps  it  may  be  well  in  your  letter  home  to 
speak  a  good  word  for  Miss  Lyle,  prepare  the  way,  you  know. 
You  have  great  influence  over  Julia,  or  at  least  over  Miss 
Creighton,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing.  I  have  written, 
of  course,  but  would  like  you  to  do  so,  too." 

"  Certainly,  with  pleasure,"  Godfrey  said,  and  there  was  a 
merry  twinkle  in  his  saucy  eyes  as  he  thought  of  the  ''  hornet's 
nest "  he  would  stir  up  at  home. 

The  colonel  had  that  day  written  to  his  eldest  daughter, 
Julia,  in  his  usual  dignified  manner,  that  he  was  about  to  marry 
Miss  Edith  Lyle,  "a  lady  of  good  family,  the  daughter  of  a 
clergyman,  the  friend  and  companion  of  my  deceased  sister, 
your  late  Aunt  Sinclair.  She  possesses  many  and  varied  ac- 
complishments, and  is,  what  I  consider,  a  very  remarkable  per- 
son, and  I  shall  expect  a  kind  reception  for  her,  and  that  all 
due  deference  will  be  paid  to  her  by  every  member  of  my  house- 
hold. Break  the  news  to  your  Aunt  Christine,  and  tell  Mrs. 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS.  103 

Tiffe  to  have  the  rooms  in  the  south  wing  made  ready  for  Mrs. 
Schuyler.  I  have  written  to  Perry  about  repairing  them,  but 
she  must  superintend  it:" 

This  was  in  part  the  colonel's  letter,  while  Godfrey's  was 
widely  different. 

"We  are  in  for  a  stepmother,  sure,"  he  wrote,  "and  may  as 
well  make  the  best  of  it.  Try  to  imagine  father  in  love,  will 
you  ?  and  such  a  love  !  Truly  she  is  '  a  very  remarkable  per- 
son,' as  you  will  say  when  you  see  her.  Just  think  of  father's 
marrying  a  red-haired  woman  of  forty,  with  a  limp  and  glass 
eye,  which  looks  at  you  with  a  squint,  and  a  crack  in  her  voice, 
which  sounds  like  Ettie  Armstrong's  old  piano,  and  quite  as 
many  aches  and  pains  as  Aunt  Christine  herself!  But  then, 
she's  nice,  and  I  like  her  ever  so  much,  while  the  governor, — 
well,  it  is  something  wonderful  to  see  how  far  gone  he  is  ;  and 
I  tell  you,  girls,  one  and  all,  that  if  you  do  not  treat  this  beauty 
with  proper  attention  there  will  be  the  old  Nick  to  pay  !  She 
will  take  your  breath  away  at  first,  for,  after  all  I  have  said,  you 
have  no  idea  how  she  looks,  and  Alice  must  hold  on  to  her 
little  nose,  and  Aunt  Christine  may  as  well  lay  in  a  fresh  supply 
of  pills  and  Crown  Bitters,  and  get  her  a  new  galvanic  battery. 
She'll  need  them  all  to  steady  her  nerves  after  the  shock  the 
bride  will  give  her.  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  home  once  more, 
though  I  do  not  believe  I  am  greatly  improved  with  foreign 
travel.  I  still  shake  down  my  pants,  and  say  '  by  Jove,'  and 
don't  believe  I  shall  be  '  so  disgusted  with 'New  York  because  it 
looks  so  new  and  backwoodsey,'  or  that  I  shall  constantly  quote 
'  dear,  charming  Par-ee?  In  short,  1  am  just  as  much  a '  clown1 
as  ever,  but  by  way  of  recompense  I  mean,  if  I  can,  to  bring 
you  the  nicest  kind  of  a  travelled  chap,  Robert  Macpherson, 
whom  I  met  in  Rome,  and  like  so  much,  even  if  he  does  part 
his  hair  in  the  middle,  and  carry  an  eyeglass,  and  put  perfumery 
into  his  bath,  and  wear  ruffled  night-shirts  buttoned  behind. 
He's  a  good  fellow,  with  money,  and  a  profession,  too.  He  is 
an  artist,  and  his  father  was  cousin  to  Lord  Somebody  or  other, 
and  I  mean  to  persuade  him  to  come  to  America  with  me  for 
you  girls  to  pull  caps  about.  So  you've  something  to  live  for 


104  BREAKING  THE  NEWS. 

besides  the  new  mam-ma,  to  whom  I  must  pay  my  respects  as 
soon  as  I  have  finished  this  letter.  So  no  more  at  present  from 
your  brother, 

GODFREY." 

The  young  scamp  chuckled  with  delight  as  he  read  over  this 
letter  and  thought  what  a  bombshell  it  would  be  in  the  staid 
household  at  Schuyler  Hill. 

"  I  haven't  written  a  lie  either,"  he  said  ;  "  I  only  told  them 
to  think  of  father's  fancying  such  a  person,  and  they  will  think 
of  it,  and  Aunt  Christine  will  have  a  fit  and  swallow  more 
than  a  quart  of  her  bitters,  and  take  a  shock  strong  enough  to 
knock  her  down,  and  Jule's  back  will  be  up,  and  Alice's  nose, 
and  Em  will  cry,  and  Tiffe  will  snort  her  indignation,  and 
there'll  be  thunder  raised  generally." 

After  these  remarks  Godfrey  folded  his  letter  and  shook  him- 
self down,  and  looked  in  the  glass,  and  started  for  Caledonia 
Street  to  call  upon  Edith.  He  found  her  at  home,  look- 
ing so  beautiful  as  she  rose  to  meet  him,  with  the  flush  on  her 
cheek,  and  the  new  expression  of  peace  and  quiet  in  her  eyes, 
that  he  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  pang  of  regret  for  the  years 
which  lay  between  them.  Then,  as  he  remembered  the  woman 
of  forty,  with  the  limp  and  glass  eye,  and  thought  of  the  con- 
sternation at  Schuyler  Hill  when  his  letter  was  received,  and  the 
surprise  when  the  bride  herself  should  arrive,  he  burst  into  an 
uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  while  Edith  looked  wonderingly 
at  him,  with  a  rising  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,"  he  said,  as  he  held  her  hand  in  his. 
"It  seems  so  ridiculous  to  think  of  calling  you  mother." 

"  Don't  do  it,  please,"  Edith  replied.  "  I'd  rather  you  would 
not.  Let  me  be  Edith." 

And  so  the  ice  was  broken,  and  Godfrey  plunged  into  the 
subject  at  once,  in  his  half-comical,  half-serious  way. 

"  Honestly,"  he  said,  "  I  am  real  glad  you  are  going  home 
with  us.  I  never  liked  any  one  outside  of  our  family  as 
well  as  I  do  you,  and  once  I  had  serious  thoughts  of  making 
love  to  you  myself!  I  did,  upon  my  word,  but  when  I  sub- 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS.  105 

tracted  eighteen  from  twenty-eight,  I  said  '  no  go.'  So  far  as 
years  are  concerned  that  is  worse  than  Aunt  Christine  and 
father." 

"  Who  is  Aunt  Christine  ?  " 

"  Have  I  never  told  you  of  her  ?  Well,  inasmuch  as  you  are 
to  be  one  of  us,  I  may  as  well  enlighten  you  with  regard  to  the 
individuals  whose  stepmother  you  are  to  be.  Aunt  Christine  is 
mother's  sister,  an  old  maid,  whose  love  died  and  left  her  his 
money.  Since  mother's  death  she  has  been  with  us  a  great  deal 
of  her  time,  quarrelling  with  Mrs.  Tiffe, — that's  the  housekeeper, 
— bullying  the  servants,  nagging  the  governess,  and  watching 
to  see  that  father  didn't  look  at  a  bonnet  with  matrimony  in  his 
eye.  You  see,  she  wanted  him  herself,  he  forty-one  and  she 
forty-six,  and  looking  almost  a  hundred,  with  all  the  drugs  and 
nostrums  she  takes  for  her  fancied  ailments.  She  has  the  neu- 
ralgia, and  catarrh,  and  dyspepsia,  and  bronchitis,  and  liver 
complaint,  and  doctors  for  them  all,  and  has  her  room  as  full  of 
bottles  as  an  apothecary's  shop,  and  sits  with  a  dish  of  tar  under 
her  nose,  and  takes  galvanic  shocks,  and  has  her  hair  dressed 
every  day,  and  wears  the  richest  of  silk  and  finest  of  lace, 
and  really  looks  splendidly  when  she  is  dressed, — was  handsome 
once,  and  is  very  exclusive  and  aristocratic,  and  proud  of  her 
Rossiter  blood,  and  will  never  rest  until  she  knows  a  person's 
pedigree,  root  and  branch." 

There  were  little  red  spots  on  Edith's  cheeks  and  neck  as 
she  thought  of  Aunt  Christine  finding  her  out,  root  and  branch. 
But,  after  all,  what  did  it  matter,  so  long  as  her  husband  knew 
and  did  not  care  ?  she  reflected,  and  grew  calm  again,  and 
amused,  as  Godfrey  went  on  : 

"  I  like  her,  of  course,  for  she  is  very  kind  to  me,  but  I  would 
not  have  father  marry  her  for  the  world.  Not  that  he  ever 
thought  of  it,  though  she  has ;  and  the  time  he  rode  out  with 
Ettie  Armstrong,  the  schoolmistress,  she  was  so  angry,  and 
wondered  how  he  could  let  himself  down,  and  he  a  Schuyler, 
who  had  married  a  Rossiter  !" 

"  Ettie  Armstrong  !  That's  a  pretty  name,"  Edith  said,  while 
there  came  before  her  mind  the  vision  of  a  dark-eyed  girl  who 
5* 


Jo6  BREAKING  THE  NEWS. 

had  promised  to  care  for  Abelard's  grave,  and  to  whom  she  had 
confessed  her  love  for  the  dead. 

"  Yes,  'tis  a  pretty  pame,"  Godfrey  said  ;  "  though  Ettie  her- 
self is  not  pretty.  She  is  most  an  old  maid,  I  guess,  and  teaches 
the  village  school,  and  thrashed  me  like  fun  the  summer  I  went 
to  her,  but  never  hit  me  a  lick  amiss.  Father  rode  with  her 
once, — a  mere  happen-so, — and  Aunt  Christine  was  furious.  I 
say,  Edith,  except  his  age,  father  is  a  catch,  and  you  a  lucky 
fellow.  Why,  half  the  women  in  New  York  and  Hampstead 
are  after  him,  and  have  been  ever  since  mother  died.  Even  at 
her  funeral,  when  the  clergyman,  in  eulogizing  her  and  telling 
what  a  loss  she  was  to  her  family,  asked  '  Who  is  there  to  fill  her 
place  ?  '  twenty  old  maids  hopped  up " 

"  Oh,  Godfrey  ! "  Edith  exclaimed,  shocked  at  his  levity ; 
"you  should  not  talk  that  way." 

Up  to  this  point  Godfrey  had  rattled  on  as  if  he  had  never 
had  a  serious  thought  or  known  a  genuine  feeling  of  affection  ; 
but  at  Edith's  rebuke  the  whole  expression  of  his  face  changed 
instantly.  His  chin  quivered,  and  his  voice  trembled,  as  he 
said  : 

"  You  think  me,  no  doubt,  an  unfeeling  wretch,  who  never 
cared  for  anybody  ;  but  you  mistake  me  there.  I  loved  my 
mother  so  much  that  I  never  go  to  sleep  at  night  without  think- 
ing of  her  in  heaven,  and  praying,  in  my  poor  way,  that  I  may 
go  to  her  some  day ;  and  I  feel  Her  hand  on  my  head,  and  hear 
her  dying  voice  bidding  me  try  to  be  good ;  and  I  have  tried 
every  day.  I  loved  my  mother  dearly,  and  the  knowing  that 
father  will  marry  again  brings  her  back  to  me,  and  I've  rattled 
on  like  a  fool  just  to  keep — to  keep — to  keep  from  crying  out- 
right for  the  mother  who  died." 

He  was  crying  now,  and  Edith  cried  with  him  and  held  his 
head  on  her  lap,  where  he  involuntarily  laid  it,  while  he  sobbed 
out  his  grief.  Nor  did  she  like  him  less  for  it.  Indeed,  the 
bond  between  them  was  stronger  than  ever,  now  that  she  saw 
how  deep  his  feelings  were,  and  that  under  his  gay  exterior  was 
hidden  so  much  genuine  affection  and  sterling  worth.  As  she 
would  have  soothed  and  comforted  a  brother,  she  soothed  and 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS.  107 

comforted  him  until  the  little  burst  was  over,  and  lifting  up  his 
head,  he  said  in  his  old  playful  way  : 

"There,  I've  had  it  out,  and  cried  in  your  lap  anyway. 
Quite  a  little  tempest,  wasn't  it?  I  say,  Edith,  you  are  not  to 
think  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  father,  for  I  do.  I  like  you 
ever  so  much,  and  I'm  going  to  stand  by  you  through  thick  and 
thin,  and  at  first  there'll  be  more  thick  than  thin,  for  Julia  will 
not  be  pleased  with  a  stepmother,  and  Em  will  follow  Julia, 
and  Alice,  who  is  there  a  great  deal,  will  sniff  any  way,  and 
Aunt  Christine  will  ride  her  highest  horse;  but  you  are  sure  to 
win  in  the  end.  Only  wear  your  most  queen-like  air,  and  keep 
a  stiff  upper  lip,  and  act  as  if  born  to  the  purple,  and  you'll 
conquer  at  last,  with  the  governor  and  me  to  uphold  you.  It's 
a  grand  old  place,  and  you'll  be  happy  there.  Who  is  that  ? 
Look  quick,  do,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  and  glancing  toward 
the  window  Edith  saw  a  cab  standing  before  the  gate,  and  a 
plainly  dressed  woman  coming  up  the  walk. 

"That  is  Mrs.  Rogers,"  she  said.  "She  lodges  here,  but  has 
been  absent  several  weeks.  We  were  not  expecting  her  so  soon." 

"  Mrs.  Rogers,"  Godfrey  repeated.  "  I  don't  mean  that  wo- 
man. It's  the  girl  in  the  cab,  with  the  bright  hair  and  blue  eyes, 
and  the  prettiest  face  I  ever  saw.  I  wish  she'd  look  out  again." 

"That  must  be  Gertie  Westbrooke,  Mrs.  Rogers's  daughter," 
Edith  said.  "She  is  very  pretty,  I  believe,  though  I  have 
never  seen  her  distinctly." 

"  Pretty  !  I  should  think  she  was  !  Why,  she's  beautiful. 
I  wish  Bob  Macpherson  could  see  that  face  and  paint  it.  He 
went  off  this  morning  to  find  some  friends  of  his,  but  he'll  be 
back  to  the  wedding.  He  is  an  artist  I  found  in  Rome.  You 
are  sure  to  like  him.  I  must  go  now.  Good-by,  mother  that 
is  to  be." 

He  kissed  her  fondly,  and  then  hurried  out  to  see  again  the 
face  in  the  cab.  Very  curiously  he  gazed  at  the  child,  whose 
little  fat  hands  went  up  to  the  eyes,  ostensibly  to  push  back  the 
stray  locks  of  auburn  hair,  but  really  to  hide  the  blushing  face. 
How  pretty  they  looked  as  they  lay  like  white  rose  leaves 
against  the  mass  of  bright  wavy  hair,  and  how  Godfrey  deplored 


loS  THE  BRIDAL. 

the  absence  of  Robert  Macpherson,  and  wished  he  were  him- 
self a  painter  as  he  walked  away,  carrying  with  him  that  image 
of  Gertie  Westbrooke,  with  the  shy,  timid  look  on  her  face,  the 
bright  hair  veiling  her  soft  blue  eyes  and  the  white  hands 
brushing  back  the  hair. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

THE    BRIDAL. 

JARY  ROGERS  had  been  in  the  country  for  several 
weeks  and  had  written  to  Mrs.  Barrett  that  she  was  to 
return  to  London  sooner  than  she  had  intended,  as 
Gertie  was  not  very  well  and  needed  the  advice  of  her  physi- 
cian. To  this  Mrs.  Barrett  had  at  once  replied,  telling  of  the 
approaching  marriage  and  asking  Mrs.  Rogers  to  defer  her  re- 
turn as  long  as  possible,  as  Miss  Lyle  was  at  home  and  occu- 
pying Gertie's  room.  Accompanying  this  letter  to  Mrs. 
Rogers  was  one  from  Norah  Long,  who  also  told  of  the  ex- 
pected marriage  of  Colonel  Schtiyler  with  Miss  Lyle,  and  the 
breakfast  to  be  given  at  Oakwood,  and  then  added  that  as  both 
the  colonel  and  Miss  Lyle  wished  her  to  accompany  them  to 
America,  she  had  decided  to  do  so,  provided  her  cousin  Mary, 
to  whom  she  was  strongly  attached,  would  go  too.  Colonel 
Schuyler  owned  several  cottages,  he  said,  and  Mary  could  have 
one,  if  she  liked,  at  a  low  rent. 

Two  days  before  the  receipt  of  this  letter  Mrs.  Rrgers  h  ul 
heard  of  the  failure  of  the  bank  where  her  money  was  invested, 
•and  knew  that  henceforth  she  must  earn  her  own  living.  This 
she  could  do  better  in  America,  and  after  due  reflection  she 
wrote  to  Norah  that  she  would  go,  and  started  for  London  the 
next  day,  intending  to  take  up  her  abode  in  the  vicinity  of  Oak- 
wood  until  the  time  for  sailing.  And  that  is  how  the  cab  came 
to  be  standing  at  Mrs.  Barrett's  door.  Gertie  did  not  alight, 
but  waited  while  Mrs.  Rogers  explained  to  Mrs.  Barrett  the 
change  in  her  circumstances  and  plans,  and  said  that  she 


THE  BRIDAL.  109 

would  come  in  a  few  days  and  take  her  things  away.  Mingled 
with  Mrs.  Barrett's  exultation  at  her  daughter's  good  fortune 
there  had  been  more  than  one  feeling  of  loneliness  and  desola- 
tion as  she  thought  of  being  alone  in  her  old  age,  even  if  that 
old  age  was  to  be  well  provided  for,  as  Colonel  Schuyler  had 
promised.  But  there  was  one  comfort  left  her  in  little  Gertie 
Westbrooke,  whom,  with  Mary  Rogers,  she  meant  to  keep  as 
long  as  possible.  She  was  not  fond  of  children,  but  no  one 
could  resist  the  bright,  sunny  little  girl  who  filled  the  house 
with  so  much  life  and  gladness,  and  whose  feet  and  hands  were 
always  ready  for  some  act  of  kindness.  And  Mrs.  Barrett 
loved  the  beautiful  child  with  a  strong,  intense  love,  which  she 
could  not  define,  unless  it  was  that  the  child  loved  her  and 
hung  about  her  neck  with  soft  caresses  and  words  of  love. 
And  now  she  was  going  away, — and  the  woman's  heart  was 
heavy  as  lead,  and  there  were  traces  of  tears  on  her  face  as  she 
went  about  her  usual  work  and  thought  of  the  desolate  future 
with  Gertie  Westbrooke  gone. 

Owing  to  Mrs.  Sinclair's  health  Edith  had  not  visited  her 
mother  very  often  during  the  past  year,  and  had  never  met 
Gertie  face  to  face,  so  she  was  only  sorry  for  her  mother  in  a 
general  kind  of  way  when  she  heard  that  she  was  to  be  left 
alone.  She  was  very  much  occupied  with  her  own  affairs,  and 
Colonel  Schuyler  and  Godfrey  took  all  her  leisure  time.  The 
colonel  came  every  other  day,  Godfrey  every  day,  and  between 
them  both  she  had  little  time  for  reflection,  but  was  hurried  on 
toward  the  end,  which  approached  so  fast,  until  at  last  the  very 
day  had  come,  a  soft,  warm  August  day,  when  the  sky  seemed 
to  smile  in  anticipation  of  the  bridal,  and  the  whole  earth  to 
laugh  for  joy.  And  Edith  felt  happy  and  glad  and  peaceful 
as  she  dressed  herself  for  the  occasion,  and  with  her  mother 
and  Norah  Long,  her  waiting-maid,  started  for  the  church  near 
Oakwood,  where  her  bridegroom  waited  for  her,  and  where  just 
a  few  of  the  late  Mrs.  Sinclair's  friends  were  assembled.  Thanks 
to  Godfrey  and  Robert  Macpherson,  who  had  returned  from 
visiting  his  friends,  the  little  church  was  decked  with  flowers, 
and  Edith  stood  under  a  canopy  of  roses  as  she  pledged  her 


no  THE  BRIDAL. 

troth  a  second  time,  and  was  made  Mrs.  Howard  Schuyler. 
Just  to  the  right  of  the  chancel,  and  where  they  could  command 
a  good  view  of  everything,  Mary  Rogers  sat,  and  with  her 
Gertie  Westbrooke.  It  was  the  child's  first  sight  of  a  wedding, 
and  when  that  morning  Mary  had  said  to  her,  "  Gertie,  how 
would  you  like  to  go  to  church  to-day  and  see  Miss  Lyle  mar- 
ried ?  "  she  had  clapped  her  hands  for  joy,  and  could  scarcely 
eat  her  breakfast  for  thinking  and  talking  of  the  wonderful  wed- 
ding. 

"  Don't  they  sometimes  throw  a  bouquet  at  the  bride's  feet?  " 
she  asked. 

And  when  told  that  they  did,  she  gathered  and  arranged  au 
exquisite  little  bouquet,  which  she  tied  with  a  white  ribbon, 
and  then,  moved  by  some  impulse  she  did  not  try  to  define, 
she  wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper,  in  her  childish  hand  : 

"  From  little  Gertie  Westbrooke,  with  her  love,  and  God 
bless  you." 

This  she  folded  and  put  inside  the  flowers,  saying  to  herself: 

"  She'll  know  who  Gertie  Westbrooke  is,  and  maybe  speak 
to  me  on  the  ship." 

Gertie  was  much  interested  in  the  beautiful  lady,  whom  she 
had  occasionally  seen  from  the  window  when  Edith  came  to 
call  upon  Mrs.  Barrett,  and  her  interest  was  increased  when 
she  heard  she  was  to  be  married  to  a  gentleman  rich  enough 
and  grand  enough  to  be  a  lord,  and  that  she  was  to  see  the 
sight,  and  then  go  to  America  in  the  same  vessel  with  the  bridal 
pair. 

It  was  all  like  a  bit  of  romance,  and  the  little  girl's  heart  beat 
high,  and  her  cheeks  were  like  carnation,  as  she  arranged  her 
bright  hair  and  twisted  a  blue  ribbon  in  it,  and  put  on  her  best 
muslin  dress,  and  the  string  of  pearl  beads  a  lady  had  given  her 
at  the  last  Christmas,  and  then  went  with  Mary  to  the  church, 
where,  with  her  face  all  flushed  and  eager,  she  stood  with  her 
dimpled  white  arms  leaning  on  the  pew  railing,  her  straw  hat 
falling  back  from  her  head,  and  her  sparkling  blue  eyes  fixed 
iij.on  the  bridal  party  as  it  came  up  the  aisle. 

"  Look,  Bob  !  there's  the  very  face  1  told  you  about,  over 


THE  BRIDAL.  in 

there  in  the  corner!"  Godfrey  whispered  to  Robert  Macpher- 
son,  with  a  pinch  of  the  arm,  which  made  Bob  wince  with  pain. 

But  he  saw  the  face,  and  started  suddenly, — it  was  so  like 
another  dear  little  face  lying  under  the  daisies  in  the  English 
sunshine.  The  same  blue  eyes,  the  same  sweet  mouth,  the 
same  bright,  flowing  hair  he  had  tried  so  hard  to  put  upon  the 
canvas,  and  failed  each  time  he  tried,  because  of  the  treacher- 
ous memory,  which,  good  in  other  things,  could  not  retain  with 
vividness  the  image  of  the  lost  one,  loved  so  passionately  and 
laid  away  from  sight  amid  so  many  tears  and  heart-throbs. 

"  The  likeness  is  wonderful,"  he  thought.  "  I  must  ascertain 
who  this  child  is.  Schuyler  will  find  her  for  me." 

The  ceremony  was  commencing  now,  and  all  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  bride,  save  those  of  Robert  Macpherson.  He  looked 
only  at  Gertie  Westbrooke,  who,  unconscious  of  his  gaze, 
stood  watching  Edith  in  silent  \vonder  and  admiration,  thinking 
how  beautiful  she  was  in  her  rich  bridal  robes,  and  how  happy 
she  must  be, — only  the  bridegroom  was  a  trifle  too  old,  and  dig- 
nified, and  grave,  Gertie  thought ;  and  then,  as  she  glanced  at 
the  tall,  handsome  Godfrey,  she  thought  if  she  were  the  bride 
she  should  prefer  him  to  the  father,  and  she  wondered  a  little 
at  Edith's  choice. 

"  I  require  and  charge  you  both  that  if  either  of  you  know 
any  impediment  why  ye  may  not  be  lawfully  joined  together, 
ye  do  now  confess  it.  Eor  be  ye  well  assured  that  if  any  per- 
sons are  joined  together  otherwise  than  as  God's  word  doth  al- 
low, their  marriage  is  not  lawful." 

The  clergyman  uttered  these  words  with  great  solemnity,  and 
by  mere  chance,  looked  full  at  Edith,  who  involuntarily  raised 
her  eyes,  and  felt  glad  that  there  was  nothing  unconfessed  on 
her  part.  Had  there  been,  she  must  have  shrieked  it  out  even 
then  at  the  last  moment.  But  Col.  Schuyler  knew  all  about 
that  grave  at  Schuyler  Hill  ;  all  about  the  baby  girl  who  died, 
and  liked  her  just  the  same.  There  was  no  reason  on  her  part 
why  she  should  not  be  his  wife,  and  she  met  the  clergyman's 
eyes  frankly,  and  felt  a  thrill  of  joy  and  peace  even  while  she 
wondered  if  the  bridegroom  thought  of  that  other  bridal,  when 


112  THE  BRIDAL. 

Abelard  Lyle  stood  beside  her  in  Mr.  Calvert's  parlor,  with 
Emily  looking  on.  And  Godfrey  had  been  there  too,  his  first 
experience  of  a  wedding,  perhaps.  Had  he  ever  thought  of  it 
since  ?  Would  his  father  ever  tell  him  who  the  boy-husband 
was,  who  the  childish  bride  ?  Probably  not,  and  it  was  just  as 
well.  Godfrey  had  no  concern  in  her  past ;  only  the  father 
was  interested,  and  if  he  was  satisfied,  that  was  sufficient. 
Thus  Edith  reasoned  to  herself,  and  saw  the  broad  band  of  gold 
upon  her  finger,  and  felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand  which  the 
colonel  gave  her,  and  knew  that  he  was  glad  because  of  her, 
and  when  it  all  was  over  she  left  the  altar  as  happy  as  half  the 
brides  who  embark  upon  the  sea  of  matrimony,  with  the  uncer- 
vain  future  before  them. 

As  she  turned  and  passed  near  Gertie,  a  bouquet  fell  at  her 
feet,  and  the  face  of  the  child  who  threw  it  was  something  won- 
derful to  look  at  as  she  watched  to  see  if  her  gift  would  be  ob- 
served and  accepted.  It  was,  for  Godfrey  and  Robert  both 
sprang  forward  to  get  it,  but  Godfrey  was  the  one  who  picked 
it  up,  and  turning  toward  Gertie,  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and 
then,  with  a  sign  which  Gertie  understood,  indicated  that  the 
bride  should  have  it. 

"  Oh,  wrasn't  it  nice,  though  ! "  Gertie  said, when  she  was  home 
again,  and  talking  of  the  event.  "  Such  a  sweet,  beautiful  lady, 
only  I  thought  her  face  was  kind  of  sorry,  and  Col.  Schuyler 
was  a  great  deal  too  old.  I'd  rather  have  the  son,  Mr.  Godfrey, 
you  call  him.  His  face  is  smooth  and  handsome,  and  his  eyes 
so  full  of  fun.  He  is  the  one  who  looked  at  me  so  in  the  cab 
at  Mrs.  Barrett's,  and  he  stared  at  me  to-day,  and  kissed  my 
flowers,  i  like  Godfrey  Schuyler  ever  so  much.  Do  you  be- 
lieve I'll  see  him  in  America  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rogers  had  listened  with  a  good  deal  of  interest  to 
Gertie's  remarks  about  the  wedding,  but  when  she  came  to 
Godfrey,  and  began  to  speculate  upon  the  probability  of  seeing 
him  in  America,  a  shadow  flitted  across  her  face,  and  she  said  : 
"  Gertie,  listen  a  moment.  You  probably  will  see  Mr.  Godfrey 
Schuyler  in  Ameria,  and  perhaps  on  shipboard,  and  if  he  noticed 
you  in  the  cab  and  at  church,  as  you  say  he  did,  he  may  try  to 


THE  BRIDAL.  113 

talk  to  you,  but  you  are  not  to  encourage  him.  Gentlemen's 
sons  do  not  talk  to  girls  like  you  for  any  good." 

Gertie  lifted  her  great  blue  eyes  to  her  auntie's  face  a  moment, 
and  then,  casting  them  down,  seemed  to  be  thinking  for  a  time, 
when  she  said,  suddenly  : 

"  Auntie,  wasn't  my  mother  a  lady,  and  wasn't  my  old  home 
most  as  big  and  pretty  as  Oakwood?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply  ;  and  Gertie  continued  : 

"Then  why  should  not  a  gentleman's  son  talk  to  me  for 
good  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  explain  to  you  now,  only  seeing  you  with  me,  and 
knowing  you  are  my  adopted  child,  they  would  naturally  place 
you  in  my  rank  ;  do  you  understand  ?  "  Mrs.  Rogers  said  ;  and 
Gertie  replied  : 

"  Yes,  but  I  could  tell  them;"  then  after  a  moment  she 
added  :  "  Auntie,  who  can  I  talk  to  ?  You  said  those  children 
at  the  farmhouse  were  not  good  enough  for  me- to  associate  with, 
and  that  people  like  Mr.  Godfrey  are  too  good." 

It  was  a  puzzling  question,  which  Mary  Rogers  could  not 
answer  satisfactorily.  She  had  carefully  guarded  her  beautiful 
child  from  all  contact  with  children  of  her  own  rank,  and  as  she 
could  not  hope  to  find  friends  in  the  higher  circles,  Gertie  had 
led  a  secluded  life  and  knew  very  little  of  young  people,  and 
what  they  did  and  said.  In  one  sense  this  made  her  old,  and 
in  other  respects  she  was  much  more  a  child  than  a  girl  of  twelve 
should  be.  But  the  latter  character  suited  Mary,  who  wished 
she  might  keep  her  darling  always  as  she  was  now,  her  very 
own,  with  no  other  love  or  interest  between  them.  The  thought 
of  Godfrey  Schuyler  jarred  upon  her  painfully,  as  if  through  him 
mischief  might  come  to  her  pet,  and  so  she  raised  a  note  of 
warning,  which  Gertie  pondered  upon  the  remainder  of  the  day, 
wondering  if  she  should  see  him  on  the  ship,  and  if  he  would 
speak  to  her,  and  what  she  should  say  if  he  did,  and  who  the 
man  was  who  parted  his  hair  in  the  middle,  and  stared  at  her 
quite  as  hard  as  Godfrey  did,  only  in  a  different  way,  and  won- 
dered what  her  aunt  would  say  if  she  knew  she  had  given  an 
old  photograph  of  herself  to  Abel  Browning,  the  freckled  boy  at 


114  AT  OAK  WOOD  AFTER    THE  BRIDAL. 

the  farmhouse,  who  cried  when  she  came  away,  and  told  her 
"  she  was  the  'andsomest  girl  he  had  ever  saw." 

"  I  just  wish  I  was  one  thing  or  the  other,"  the  little  girl  said 
to  herself.  "It  is  real  mean  to  be  too  good  to  play  with  Abel 
and  Bettie  Browning,  and  not  good  enough  to  be  talked  to  and 
looked  at  by  Mr.  Godfrey  Schuyler." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AT   OAKWOOD    AFTER   THE     BRIDAL. 

|HE  wedding  breakfast  was  over,  and  Edith  was  in  her 
room  with  her  maid,  Norah  Long,  and  her  mother, 
dressing  for  the  short  trip  she  was  to  make  into  the 
country  before  embarking  for  her  new  home. 

There  were  many  beautiful  bouquets  on  her  table,  and  Norah 
was  to  keep  them  for  her  till  she  returned,  especially  the  one 
thrown  at  her  feet  bv  Gertie  Westbrooke.  Godfrey  had  brought 
this  to  her  and  told  her  whence  it  came,  and  she  had  found  the 
slip  of  paper  hidden  in  it,  and  read,  "  From  little  Gertie  West- 
brooke, with  her  love,  and  God  bless  you." 

She  had  received  costly  gifts  that  day,  but  with  none  had 
there  come  a  "  God  bless  you,"  save  with  this  tiny  bouquet,  and 
as  she  placed  it  herself  in  water,  she  whispered  :  "  I  do  believe 
it's  the  only  blessing  I  have  had.  I'll  find  the  child  when  I 
come  back,  and  thank  her  for  it." 

She  was  dressed  at  last  in  her  handsome  black  silk,  with  her 
jaunty  round  hat  and  feather,  which  made  her  look  so  young 
and  girlish,  and  then  turning  to  Norah  she  bade  her  leave  the 
room,  as  she  wished  to  be  alone  with  her  mother  for  a  few 
moments. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  when  the  door  had  closed  on  Norah, 
"  Col.  Schuyler  is  so  kind  and  generous,  he  has  told  me  to  ask 
him  anything  to-day,  and  he  will  grant  it ;  and  so  I  have  con- 
cluded just  for  once  to  bring  up  the  past  and  ask  him  if,  before 
leaving  England,  I  may  find  where  baby  was  buried,  and  order 


AT  OAKWOOD  AFTER    THE  BRIDAL.  115 

her  a  grave-stone.  You  can  attend  to  it,  you  know,  and  I  shall 
feel  that  everything  has  been  done  which  I  ought  to  do.  What 
do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

She  was  buttoning  her  gloves  as  she  turned  toward  her 
mother,  but  stopped  suddenly,  struck  by  the  expression  of 
the  face  which  met  her  eyes,  and  which  she  knew  meant  so 
much. 

"  Do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Are  you  crazy,  girl  ?  Never 
allude  to  the  child,  if  you  wish  to  be  happy." 

Mrs.  Barrett  spoke  rapidly  and  excitedly  ;  and  with  a  name- 
less terror  of  some  threatened  danger,  Edith  asked  : 

"Why,  mother?  Why  not  mention  the  child  to-day,  when 
he  said,  ask  what  I  pleased  ?  Why  must  I  not  ?  " 

"  Because— because — "  and  Mrs.  Barrett  came  close  to  her 
and  whispered  :  "  He  don't  know  there  was  a  child.  I  did  not 
tell  him  that." 

"Don't  know  there  \vas  a  child  !  "  Edith  repeated.  "What 
do  you  mean  ?  I  wrote  it  in  the  letter, — all,  everything  ;  if  he 
read  it  he  knows  about  my  baby.  Moth !  Moth ! " 

She  could  not  say  the  whole  name, — could  not  articulate 
another  word,  for  the  awful  suspicion  which  flashed  upon  her, 
bringing  back  the  hand  which  clutched  her  in  a  death-like 
grasp,  and  made  her  writhe  and  gasp  for  breath. 

"  Edith,  listen  to  me  ; "  and  Mrs.  Barrett  spoke  sternly.  "  It 
is  time  this  folly  ended.  Do  you  think  I  would  let  you  throw 
away  the  chance  for  which  I  had  waited  so  long?  Had  Colonel 
Schuyler  known  the  truth  as  you  wrote  it,  he  would  not  have 
married  you,  and  as  your  mother  it  was  my  duty  to  interfere 
and  save  you  from  the  consequences  of  your  rashness.  I  kept 
your  letter,  and  told  him  what  I  liked.  I  said  you  were  in  love 
when  very  young, — scarcely  fifteen, — that  the  object  of  your 
love  was  greatly  your  inferior,  and  that  I  opposed  the  affair — 
that  in  spite  of  all  you  were  secretly  engaged,  and  would  have 
been  married,  no  doubt,  had  he  not  been  suddenly  killed.  I 
told  him,  too,  that  the  manner  of  his  death  was  a  fearful  shock 
to  your  nerves,  from  which  you  had  not  yet  recovered,  as  you 
now  sometimes  felt  a  choking  sensation  in  your  throat  when 


n6  AT  OAK  WOOD  AFTER    THE  BRIDAL. 

reminded  of  the  past,  and  asked  him  never  to  refer  to  it  if  he 
wished  to  spare  you  pain.  He  promised  he  would  not.  He  did 
not  ask  the  name  of  the  young  man,  nor  where  he  lived ;  indeed, 
he  was  not  at  all  anxious  to  discuss  the  matter,  and  stopped 
me  before  I  was  quite  done  by  telling  me  he  had  heard  enough, 
and  that  he  was  satisfied.  I  think,  however,  he  was  annoyed, 
and  you  can  judge  what  would  have  been  the  result  had  I 
given  him  your  letter.  Believe  me,  I  acted  for  the  best,  and 
though  you  can  now  tell  him,  if  you  like,  I  trust  you  have  too 
much  good  sense  to  do  so,  or  at  least  will  take  time  to  con- 
sider. You  are  his  wife  ;  nothing  can  alter  that,  and  the  past 
cannot  in  any  way  affect  him,  provided  he  knows  nothing  of 
it.  To  tell  him  now  would  be  to  wound  him  cruelly,  and  my 
advice  to  you  is  to  let  the  matter  rest,  and  take  the  good  offered 
to  you." 

Edith  made  no  reply.  Indeed,  she  could  not  have  spoken 
to  have  saved  her  life  for  the  choking,  palpitating  sensation  in 
her  throat,  where  her  heart  seemed  beating  wildly  with  such 
throbs  of  pain  as  she  had  never  felt  before.  Gradually  as  her 
mother  talked  she  had  sank  down  upon  the  couch  where  she 
lay  in  a  crumpled  heap,  her  face  as  white  as  ashes,  and  her  eyes 
staring  wildly  like  the  eyes  of  one  choking  to  death.  And 
when  at  last  she  spoke,  it  was  only  in  a  whisper  that  she  said : 

"  Oh,  mother,  you  make  me  wish  I  was  dead." 

There  was  the  sound  of  wheels  upon  the  gravelled  road,  and 
Col.  Schuyler's  voice  at  the  door,  saying  the  carriage  was 
waiting. 

"  Let  it  wait ;  I  cannot  go  now,"  Edith  gasped,  trying  in 
vain  to  struggle  to  her  feet,  and  then  falling  back  among  the 
cushions,  weak  and  powerless  to  help  herself. 

Opening  the  door  Mrs.  Barrett  bade  Col.  Schuyler  enter,  and 
then  closing  it  again  drew  him  quickly  into  the  little  dressing- 
room  before  he  caught  sight  of  Edith  lying  so  still  and  helpless 
in  her  misery. 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  I  suppose  she  cannot  help  it,"  she  began, 
"  she  is  so  weak  and  nervous ;  but  something  I  said  to  her  of 
that  early  affair,  you  know,  has  affected  Edith  so  much  as  almost 


AT  OAK  WOOD  AFTER    THE  BRIDAL.  117 

to  bring  on  a  faint,  and  she  is  there  on  the  sofa,  unable  to  sit  up. 
Be  very  gentle  with  her,  do.  It  is  all  my  fault." 

For  a  man  to  be  told  that  his  two  hours'  bride  has  fainted 
because  reminded  of  a  former  love  affair,  is  not  very  pleasant? 
and  Col.  Schuyler  grew  hot  and  cold,  and  a  little  annoyed.  But 
he  had  known  all  the  time  that  Edith's  love  in  its  full  extent 
was  yet  to  be  won,  and  so  the  humiliation  was  not  nearly  so 
hard,  and  his  voice  was  very  tender  and  kind  as  he  bent  over 
her,  and  said  : 

"  Edith,  my  darling,  it  distresses  me  to  see  you  thus.  I  had 
thought, — I  had  hoped, — Edith,  you  are  not  sorry  you  are  my 
wife,  when  I  am  so  glad  ?  " 

There  was  something  pleading  in  his  tone,  and  it  roused  Edith, 
and  sitting  up,  she  said  : 

"  No,  Col.  Schuyler,  I  am  not  sorry,  and  Heaven  helping  me, 
I'll  be  a  good,  true  wife  to  you,  but  oh — oh — you  must — bear 
with  me,  and  if  I  am  not  all,  or  what  you  believe  nie  to  be,  for- 
give me,  will  you?  /am  not  to  blame." 

He  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  she  meant,  nor  did  he 
care.  She  was  excited  and  nervous,  he  thought,  and  he  tried 
to  comfort  and  soothe  her,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  held  her  closely  to  him,  and  told  her  to  calm  herself,  and 
motioned  Mrs.  Barrett  away  with  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and 
when  Godfrey  came  to  the  door,  and  said,  "  Hurry  up,  or  you'll 
be  late,"  he  answered  back,  "  Send  the  carriage  away.  We  will 
take  the  next  train.  Mrs.  Schuyler  is  suddenly  ill  and  cannot 
go  just  yet." 

He  had  called  her  Mrs.  Schuyler,  she  was  his  wife,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  reassurance  and  quiet  began  to  steal  over  Edith  as  she 
sat  with  her  head  on  her  husband's  shoulder  and  his  arm  around 
her  waist,  and  with  this  feeling  came  a  sensation  akin  to  love 
for  the  man  who  was  so  kind  to  her  and  who  had  been  so  de- 
ceived. But  not  by  her;  she  was  hot  to  blame,  and  she  meant 
to  tell  him  all,  but  not  then.  It  was  neither  the  time  nor  the 
place.  It  should  be  when  they  were  away  alone,  before  the 
day  was  over,  and  then  if  he  chose  to  put  her  from  him,  and  go 
back  without  her,  he  could  do  so,  and  she  would  say  it  was  right. 


n8  AT  OAKWOOD  AFTER  THE  BRIDAL. 

She  grew  better  rapidly  after  this  decision  was  reached,  and 
though  her  face  was  very  pale,  and  there  was  a  frightened  look 
in  her  eyes,  she  met  her  friends  at  last  with  a  smile,  and  gave 
some  laughing  excuse  for  her  sudden  faintness, — said  the  day 
was  warm, — that  she  had  not  been  well  or  slept  much  for  weeks, 
— that  she  was  subject  to  such  attacks,  but  thought  it  most  un- 
fortunate that  she  should  have  one  that  day  of  all  others. 

She  was  much  better  when  the  time  for  the  next  train  drew 
near,  but  there  was  a  steady  avoidance  of  her  mother,  who  had 
deceived  her  so, — a  coldness  of  manner  which  Mrs.  Barrett  felt 
but  did  not  mind.  So  long  as  her  end  was  obtained  she  was 
not  scrupulous  as  to  the  means.  She  loved  her  daughter  in  her 
way,  and  now  that  she  was  Mrs.  Howard  Schuyler  she  would 
like  to  make  much  of  her  and  be  made  much  of  in  return,  but 
if  Edith  was  foolish  enough  to  resent  the  means  she  had  used 
to  place  her  where  she  was,  she  could  not  help  it,  and  bore  her 
punishment  very  meekly,  and  was  not  at  all  demonstrative 
when  at  last  her  daughter  said  good-by  to  her  just  as  she  said 
it  to  the  others  and  took  her  seat  in  the  carnage. 

Col.  Schuyler  noticed  the  formal  leave-taking,  and  though  he 
was  better  pleased  to  have  it  thus  than  he  would  have  been  had 
there  been  kissing  and  crying  over  the  woman  he  secretly  dis- 
liked and  distrusted,  he  was  a  little  surprised,  and  wondered  if 
it  were  a  feeling  of  pride  born  of  her  elevation  which  had  so 
soon  affected  Edith. 

Alas,  he  little  understood  her  or  dreamed  of  the  conflict 
going  on  in  her  mind  as  she  was  borne  rapidly  along  the  road, 
through  the  beautiful  English  country,  to  the  place  where  they 
were  to  spend  the  night  and  where  Edith  meant  to  tell  him  all. 


THE  BRIDAL   DAYS.  119 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    BRIDAL    DAYS. 

jINNER  was  over  in  the  house  where  they  had  stopped 
for  the  night,  and  drawing  his  chair  near  to  the  open 
window  of  their  little  parlor,  Col.  Schuyler  sat  down 
to  enjoy  the  sweet  summer  air,  as  it  came  stealing  in  laden  with 
the  perfume  of  flowers  and  the  freshly-cut  hay  upon  the  lawn  of 
the  castle  near  by.  Edith  was  in  the  dressing-room  adjoining, 
pretending  to  arrange  her  hair,  but  in  reality  trying  to  make  up 
her  mind  how  to  begin  the  story  she  must  tell.  And  how  would 
he  receive  it  ?  Would  he  spurn  her  at  once,  or,  rather  than  let 
the  world  know  of  his  disgrace,  would  he  keep  her  with  him,  a 
wife  merely  in  name,  whom  he  never  could  love  or  respect  ? 

"Oh,  Father  in  Heaven,"  she  whispered,  "you  know  I  am 
not  to  blame  in  this  ;  help  me  to  tell  him,  and  incline  him  to 
receive  it  aright." 

Strengthened  by  this  prayer  for  aid,  she  gave  herself  no  time, 
for  further  hesitation,  but  going  swiftly  to  her  husband's  side 
she  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  in  an  appealing  kind  of  way 
and  said  to  him,  softly  : 

"  Colonel  Schuyler  !  " 

During  the  few  hours  in  which  the  colonel  had  had  Edith  all 
to  himself  and  felt  that  she  really  was  his 'own,  he  had  almost 
fallen  in  love  with  her  in  sober  earnest.  Before  that  day  he 
had  greatly  admired  and  liked  and  respected  and  desired  her, 
but  something  in  the  actual  possession  of  her  had  stirred  a 
deeper  feeling  in  his  heart  than  mere  pride  in  her  personal 
attractions,  and  when  he  felt  the  touch  of  her  hand  and  heard 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  a  great  throb  of  delight  thrilled  through 
his  veins,  and  drawing  her  to  him  he  made  her  sit  upon  his 
knee,  and  smoothing  her  cheek  caressingly,  said  to  her : 

"Don't  call  me  Colonel  Schuyler,  please.  I'd  rather  be 
Howard  to  you,  now  that  you  are  my  wife.  It  will«6eem  to 
lessen  the  years  between  us,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be  so  much 


120  THE  BRIDAL  DAYS. 

older  than  my  darling.  Call  me  Howard  now,  and  let  me  hear 
how  it  sounds." 

"  Not  yet,"  Edith  said  ;  "  not  till  I  have  told  you  something 
which  should  have  been  told  before,  and  which  may  make  a 
difference." 

She  spoke  slowly  and  painfully,  and  Colonel  Schuyler  detect- 
ed signs  of  choking  in  her  voice,  and  guessing  at  once  that  she 
wa?  thinking  of  the  early  lover,  said  to  her,  very  kindly  but  firmly  : 

"Don't,  Edith,  please;  don't  tell  me  anything  which  will 
distress  you.  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  it.  Your  mother  told  me 
enough, — all  I  care  to  know, — and  I  am  satisfied." 

"  But,  Howard," — she  called  him  thus  involuntarily,  and  there 
was  a  world  of  pathos  and  pitiful  entreaty  in  her  voice,  while 
the  eyes  she  fixed  upon  him  were  swimming  in  tears — "  but, 
Howard,  mother  did  not  tell  you  the  whole " 

"  Then  you  need  not,"  he  answered,  quickly.  "  If  you  are 
pure,  and  good,  and  true,  that  is  all  I  ask,  and  I  know  you  are 
all  of  these.  I  daresay  your  mother  did  not  tell  me  as  elo- 
quently as  you  could  have  told  me  how  much  you  loved  that 
man,  and  how  your  heart  ached  for  him  ;  and  you  wish  me  to 
know  it  all,  but  I  am  satisfied.  You  are  my  wife,  and  nothing 
can  make  any  difference,  even  if  you  were  his  widow,  instead 
of  his  affianced,  though  widows  are  not  to  my  taste.  I  am  satis- 
fied, and  to  prove  that  I  am,  I  do  not  even  care  to  know  his 
name  or  where  he  lived.  In  fact,  I  would  rather  not  know  it, 
would  rather  you  should  never  refer  to  it  again,  for  it  is  not  a 
pleasant  topic ;  and  now  for  the  favor  you  were  to  ask  me  on 
our  wedding-day,  and  which  I  was  to  grant  even  to  half  my 
kingdom." 

He  spoke  playfully  and  held  her  closer  to  him  while  the  hot 
tears  poured  over  Edith's  face.  What  should  she  do?  Should 
she  tell  him  in  spite  of  his  protest  and  his  assurance  that  he 
was  satisfied?  She  could  not  with  the  memory  of  his  words, 
"  Widows  are  not  to  my  taste,"  still  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  so 
she  let  tht  opportunity  pass,  and  the  only  favor  she  asked  was 
that  whoever  might  come  in  the  future  he  would  have  faith  in 
her  and  believe  that  she  meant  to  do  right. 


THE  BRIDAL   DAYS.  12 1 

"  Of  course  I  will,  you  foolish  little  girl.  You  are  nervous 
and  tired  to-night,"  he  said  ;  and  then,  as  if  struck  with  a  sudden 
thought,  he  added :  "  Only  tell  me  one  thing, — if  that  young 
man  had  lived  and  not  improved  beyond  what  he  was  when  you 
knew  him,  and  you  had  grown  to  be  what  you  are,  could  you 
have  loved  him  now  as  you  did  then  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  never  thought  of  it  in  that  light,"  Edith 
said  ;  and  her  husband  continued  : 

"  One  question  more.  Do  you  believe  you  can  in  time  love 
me  as  well  as  you  did  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Howard,  I  know  I  can,"  Edith  spoke  quickly,  and  her 
arms  wound  themselves  involuntarily  around  her  husband's 
neck,  while  for  the  first  time  she  kissed  him  unsolicited. 

"Then,  my  darling,"  he  responded,  "  there  is  nothing  before 
us  but  happiness,  if  God  so  wills  it,  and  may  He  deal  by  me 
as  I  do  by  you,  my  precious  wife." 

He  was  growing  to  love  her  so  fast,  and  Edith  knew  it,  and 
felt  her  misery  giving  way,  and  her  heart  grew  light  again  as  it 
had  been  when  she  fancied  he  knew  the  whole. 

Edith  had  known  from  the  first  that  it  was  the  colonel's  plan 
to  visit  Alnwick  and  go  over  the  grand  old  castle  which  at  this 
season  of  the  year  was  open  to  visitors,  and  she  did  not  oppose 
him,  though  the  neighborhood  of  Alnwick  was  fraught  with  sad 
memories  for  her  as  having  been  Abelard's  home.  His  friends 
were  still  living  there,  she  knew  from  Godfrey,  and  the  first 
night  at  the  inn  where  they  took  rooms  was  passed  in  wakeful- 
ness,  with  a  feeling  of  oppression  and  sadness  which  she  could 
not  shake  off.  Abelard  had  told  her  so  much  of  Alnwick  and 
the  castle,  and  had  talked  of  the  time  when  she  would  visit  it 
with  him  ;  and  now,  he  was  dead,  and  she  was  there,  the  wife 
of  another  man,  with  that  great  secret  weighing  her  down  at 
times  and  casting  a  shadow  on  everything.  How  she  wished 
she  might  see  his  home  and  the  old  mother  he  used  to  talk  of 
so  fondly,  and  yet  when  her  husband  said  to  her  one  morning  : 
"  Edith,  I  am  going  to  call  on  some  poor  people  who  live  about 
two  miles  from  here.  Perhaps  you  will  like  to  go  with  "me  when 
I  tell  vou  who  they  are,"  she  trembled  and  grew  cold,  and 


122  THE  BRIDAL  DAYS. 

scarcely  heard  a  word  of  the  story  he  told  her,  and  which  she 
knew  so  much  better  than  he  did.  "  1  called  upon  them  last 
summer,"  he  said,  "  when  Godfrey  was  with  me,  and  it  is  not 
necessary  that  I  should  go  again,  but  I  know  it  will  please  them, 
and  I  am  so  happy  myself  that  I  feel  like  conferring  happiness 
on  others.  Will  you  go,  darling  ?  They  will  feel  honored  if  I 
bring  them  my  young  bride." 

"Oh,  Howard,  no!  Please  don't  ask  me.  I'd  so  much 
rather  not,"  Edith  cried,  feeling  how  terrible  it  would  be  to  go 
with  her  husband  into  the  presence  of  Abelard's  mother  and 
hear  her  talk  of  him,  as  she  assuredly  would. 

She  could  not  do  it,  and  she  expressed  herself  so  decidedly, 
that  the  colonel  looked  at  her  curiously  while  a  cloud  passed 
over  his  face  ;  and,  without  meaning  to  do  so,  he  seemed  dis- 
pleased and  out  of  sorts.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  have  his 
wishes  thwarted,  and  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  taking  his  wife 
with  him  when  he  visited  the  Lyles,  and  after  he  had  told  her  of 
his  indebtedness  to  them,  he  thought  she  ought  to  go  out  of 
deference  to  his  wishes.  Surely  it  was  not  pride  which  prompted 
her  unwillingness  to  call  upon  such  people,  for  what  business  had 
she  to  be  prouder  than  himself,  he  thought,  and  he  seemed  so 
moody  and  silent  that  Edith  detected  the  change  in  his  man- 
ner at  once,  and  resolving  to  conquer  her  own  personal  feelings, 
went  up  to  him  and  said  : 

"  Howard,  I  have  changed  my  mind ;  I  will  go  with  you  if 
you  wish  it." 

His  face  cleared  as  he  said  :  "  Thank  you,  darling,  I  am 
very  glad,  both  because  I  like  to  have  you  with  me,  and  be- 
cause I  know  the  attention  will  be  sure  to  please  those  people. 
Did  I  tell  you  of  the  little  boy  to  whom  Godfrey  gave  his  name, 
when  we  stopped  there  last  year  on  our  way  to  Oakwood  ?  He 
is  always  doing  such  things  ;  has  two  or  three  namesakes  at 
home,  a  thing  of  which  I  do  not  altogether  approve,  but  in  the 
case  of  these  Nesbits  I  could  not  oppose  it.  Shall  we  start  at 
once  ?  It  is  only  two  miles  distant ;  will  you  walk  or  ride  ?  " 

Edith  chose  to  walk,  and  they  set  off  together  across  the 
fresh  green  fields,  and  through  the  quiet,  shaded  lanes  toward 


THE   BRIDAL   DAYS.  123 

the  low-thatched  cottage  where  Abelard  Lyle  was  born,  and 
where  his  mother  sat  knitting  by  the  door  with  a  placid  expres- 
sion on  her  calm  face,  and  the  sunlight  falling  on  her  snowy 
hair.  It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  Edith's  emotions  as 
she  walked  with  her  husband  through  the  lanes,  and  fields,  and 
woods  where  her  boy-lover  had  so  often  been,  and  where  he 
lad  thought  some  day  to  bring  her  and  show  her  to  his  mother, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  almost  as  if  he  was  there,  moving  silently 
beside  her,  and  once  when  a  leaf  rustled  at  her  feet,  she  started 
with  a  nervous  cry  and  clung  close  to  her  husband's  arm.  And 
yet  it  was  not  regret  for  the  dead  which  thus  affected  her.  Her 
life  with  Abelard  was  like  a  far-off  dream  to  her  now,  a  thing 
apart  from  herself  and  her  present  life,  and  had  her  husband 
known,  she  would  not  have  felt  as  she  did  with  that  secret  on 
her  mind,  making  her  breathe  quickly,  and  grow  faint  and  pale 
when  at  last  the  house  was  reached  and  she  saw  for  the  first 
time  how  humble  and  poor  Abelard's  home  had  been.  Every- 
thing pertaining  to  it,  however,  was  scrupulously  neat,  and  the 
little  grass-plat  before  the  door  showed  frequent  acquaintance 
with  sickle  or  shears,  while  the  old-fashioned  flowers  on  the 
narrow  border  told  of  good  taste  in  some  one.  But  it  was  all 
so  small  and  meagre  and  poor,  and  the  calico  dress  of  the  old 
lady,  knitting  on  the  porch,  was  faded  and  patched,  and  the 
white  kerchief  pinned  about  her  neck  was  darned  in  several 
places.  She  had  a  fair,  sweet  old  face,  with  a  resemblance  to 
Abelard,  Edith  thought,  when  at  the  sound  of  their  footsteps 
she  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  welcome  and  inquiry.  From 
having  always  lived  near  the  border  she  spoke  with  a  broad 
Scotch  accent,  which  Edith  did  not  comprehend  at  first.  She 
was  evidently  greatly  pleased  and  flattered  that  Col.  Schuyler 
had  come  to  see  her  again,  and  brought  his  bonny  bride,  whose 
hand  she  held  in  her  own,  and  into  whose  face  she  gazed  curi- 
ously as  she  bade  her  welcome,  and  led  her  into  the  house 
where  Mrs.  Nesbit,  the  daughter,  sat  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up 
combing  her  long  black  hair,  with  a  bit  of  glass  before  her,  and 
Godfrey  Schuyler  asleep  in  his  rude  cradle. 

Mrs.  Nesbit,  or  Jenny  as  she  was  called,  was  not   naturally 


124  THE  BRIDAL  DAYS. 

as  refined  as  her  mother,  and  she  kept  on  combing  her  hair 
without  any  apology,  talking  rapidly  all  the  time,  and  saying 
what  an  honor  she  felt  it  to  be  for  the  likes  of  Col.  Schuyler  to 
visit  the  likes  of  them,  though  to  be  sure  he  owed  them  some- 
thing for  her  poor  brother's  death.  "You  know  about  that,  I 
s'pose,"  and  she  looked  at  Edith,  whose  dress  she  had  been 
closely  inspecting  between  each  passage  of  the  comb  through 
her  hair. 

Edith  nodded  in  token  that  she  did  know.  She  could  not 
speak  ;  the  room  was  so  small  and  so  close,  and  the  iron  fingers 
held  her  throat  with  so  firm  a  clutch  that  she  could  only  sit  per- 
fectly still  and  listen  while  the  old  story  was  told  again  by  Col- 
onel Schuyler,  and  the  mother  wept  silently,  ejaculating  now 
and  then,  "  Oh,  my  puir  bairn,  my  puir  bairn  ! " 

Jenny  did  not  cry.  She  was  looking  at  the  bride  in  her  rich 
apparel,  and  thinking  how  proud  she  was  to  be  so  unmoved,  as 
if  it  was  nothing  to  her  how  many  poor  men  lost  their  lives  to 
save  that  of  a  Schuyler.  And  Colonel  Schuyler  too  had  similar 
thoughts  with  Jenny,  and  believed  it  was  contempt  for  these 
people  and  their  surroundings  which  kept  Edith  so  silent,  in 
spite  of  his  efforts  to  draw  her  into  the  conversation  and  make 
her  seem  gracious  and  interested.  Alas !  he  could  not  guess 
what  she  was  enduring  as  she  sat  there  in  Abelard's  home,  and 
heard  them  talking  of  him  and  all  the  incidents  concerned  with 
his  death. 

"You  dinna  ken  my  lad,"  the  mother  said  to  her;  "an'  so 
you  dinna  ken  how  sair  I  was  for  him.  Ah,  he  was  a  bonny 
lad  and  gude." 

Edith  nodded,  and  the  old  lady  went  on,  now  addressing  the 
colonel : 

"  A  maun  who  kenned  my  boy  and  see  him  kilt  coomed  here 
onc't  an'  tauld  me  about  it,  and  said  there  was  a  young  lass 
there  who  moight  be  Abel's  sweetheart ;  heard  ye  tell  of  her 
like?" 

No,  the  colonel  had  not  heard  of  her,  or  he  had  forgotten,  and 
as  Edith  was  not  supposed  to  know  anything  of  the  circum- 
stances she  was  spared  the  questioning,  and  Mrs.  Lyle  went  on 


THE  BRIDAL  DAYS.  125 

to  say  that  if  there  was  such  a  lass  she'd  like  so  much  to  know 
something  of  her. 

"  Mayhap,"  and  she  turned  again  to  Edith  ;  "  mayhap  you'll 
foind  her  some  day,  and  if  you  do  wool  ye  let  me  know  ?  " 

Had  her  life  depended  upon  it  Edith  could  not  have  spoken, 
and  a  nod  was  her  only  answer,  while  her  cheeks  burned  scar- 
let and  the  perspiration  gathered  about  her  mouth.  The 
colonel  was  angry,  and  rose  to  take  leave,  while  Jenny,  who  was 
angry  also  at  what  she  believed  to  be  the  lady's  pride,  began  in 
a  flippant  way  to  say  that,  poor  as  they  were,  they  had  some 
grand  relatives  ;  her  oldest  sister,  Dorothea,  had  married  into 
one  of  the  high  Scotch  families,  where  they  kept  twenty  servants 
and  dined  at  six  o'clock. 

"  Hoity-toity,  Jenny,  my  lass,"  said  the  mother,  "  what  was 
the  good  o'  that  ?  Dinna  them  foine  folk  turn  my  Dolly  and 
her  maun  out  o'  door  and  never  spake  to  'em  till  he  died  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  but  their  boy  got  the  money  at  last,  and  was 
here  to  see  us  a  spell  ago,  lookin'  as  foine  as  any  gentleman," 
Jenny  said,  and  then  having  given  the  final  twist  to  her  hair, 
and  seeing  that  their  guests  were  really  going,  she  woke  the 
little  Godfrey  Schuyler,  and  took  him  proudly  to  Edith,  who 
could  and  did  kiss  him  ;  an  act  which  made  amends  for  much 
of  her  silence  and  seeming  haughtiness  of  manner. 

Had  Edith  followed  out  her  impulse  she  would  have  kissed 
Abelard's  mother,  for  the  sake  of  the  dead  son,  but  after  her 
persistent  silence  and  reserve  there  could  be  no  excuse  for  such 
a  proceeding,  and  so  she  merely  took  the  withered  hand  in  her 
own  and  pressed  it  hard,  managing  to  say  "  good-by,"  and  then 
she  passed  through  the  low  door,  out  into  the  sunshine,  like  one 
passing  from  prison  walls  into  freedom  again. 

For  a  time  the  colonel  was  silent,  and  never  spoke  a  word 
until  they  reached  the  border  of  the  wood  through  which  a  path 
led  to  Alnwick ;  then,  as  Edith  paused  a  moment  and  looked 
back  at  the  thatched  roof  with  the  creeper  climbing  over  it,  he, 
too,  looked  back  and  said  : 

"  I  am  glad  my  lot  was  not  cast  among  such  people  ;  I  cannot 
say  they  are  to  my  taste,  especially  that  garrulous  Mrs.  Nesbit, 


126  THE  BRIDAL  DAYS. 

with  her  fine  comb  and  bare  arms.  The  old  lady  is  better, 
and  has  a  good  deal  of  natural  refinement.  I  think  our  visit 
did  her  good ;  such  people  are  always  pleased  with  attention 
from  their  betters,  and  it  certainly  does  us  no  harm  to  give  it. 

Edith,  my  dear "  He  spoke  a  little  sternly  now,  and  his 

face  was  overcast.  "  I  am  sorry  you  chose  to  be  so  quiet  and 
reserved.  It  would  have  pleased  me  better  if  you  had  made 
an  effort  to  be  more  social  with  them,  and  I  really  owe  them  so 
much." 

"  Oh,  Howard,  please  forgive  me.  It  was  not  pride  which 
kept  me  silent.  I  wanted  to  talk,  but  could  not,"  Edith  said, 
while  the  tears  rained  over  her  face. 

He  had  made  her  cry,  and  he 'was  sorry  for  it  at  once,  and 
made  her  sit  down  beside  him  on  a  rude  bench  by  the  path,  and 
said  he  was  hasty  and  had  expected  too  much  from  her,  who 
could  not  of  course  sympathize  with  his  interest  in  the  Lyles. 
And  Edith  listened  to  him,  and  felt  like  a  felon  who  is  hiding 
his  secret  from  the  world.  Why  had  she  not  told  him  that  first 
day  of  married  life  with  him  ?  Why  had  she  not  shrieked  it  in 
his  ear  and  compelled  him  to  hear  it  ?  It  had  been  easier  then, 
sure,  than  it  was  now,  when  so  much  had  happened  to  make  it 
hard,  if  not  impossible.  Yes,  impossible,  she  said  to  herself,  as 
she  remembered  the  bare  arms  and  the  fine  comb  and  the  talk- 
ative Mrs.  Nesbit.  She  could  not  declare  that  woman  to  be  her 
sister-in-law,  and  she  forced  the  secret  still  further  down  into 
her  heart,  and  when  her  husband  bade  her  kiss  him  in  token  of 
forgiveness,  she  kissed  him  twice,  and  there  was  peace  between 
them  as  they  walked  arm  in  arm  through  the  leafy  woods  and 
grassy  lanes  back  to  their  rooms  at  Alnwick. 

But  Edith's  mind  was  not  at  rest.  Thoughts  of  that  white- 
haired,  sweet-faced  old  lady,  knitting  in  the  sunshine,  were  -con- 
stantly in  her  mind.  She  had  been  cold,  almost  rude  to  her, 
and  she  wished  to  make  amends, — to  leave,  if  possible,  a  good 
impression  of  herself  in  Abelard's  old  home, — to  have  his  mother's 
blessing  as  a  guaranty  of  happiness  in  the  life  before  her,  and 
as  she  lay  awake  many  hours  of  the  night,  her  thoughts  gradu- 
ally formed  themselves  into  a  plan  she  resolved  to  carry  out. 


THE   BRIDAL   DAYS.  127 

Her  husband  had  been  invited  to  dine  at  the  castle  with  a  party 
of  American  gentlemen,  who  were  about  to  introduce  some 
farming  implement  to  the  agent  of  the  estate,  who  acted  as  host 
oh  the  occasion.  As  no  ladies  were  included,  Edith  was  to  be 
left  .alone  for  several  hours,  and  she  determined  to  improve  the 
opportunity  for  redressing  any  wrong  she  might  have  done  to 
Mrs.  Lyle. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  before  her  husband  left  her,  and  as 
soon  as  he  was  gone  she  donned  her  walking-dress,  and  set  off 
for  the  cottage  near  the  wood.  Fortunately  for  her  Mrs.  Nes- 
bit  was  out,  but  the  old  lady  sat  knitting  again  on  the  porch,  with 
little  Godfrey  Schuyler  playing  near  her  on  the  floor.  She  re- 
cognized Edith,  and  seemed  both  glad  and  surprised  to  see  her. 

"  I  wanted  to  come  again,"  Edith  said,  sitting  down  close 
beside  the  woman.  "  I  was  not  feeling  well  when  I  was  here 
yesterday,  and  I  could  not  talk  as  I  wished  to  do,  but  I  did 
not  mean  it  for  coldness  or  pride.  Colonel  Schuyler  is  so 
grateful  for  what  your  son  did  for  him,  and  I — I  am  interested 
in  you,  too,— more  even  than  he  can  be,  and  if  you  like  you 
may  tell  all  about  your  boy  who  died  in  that  dreadful  manner." 

There  were  tears  in  Edith's  eyes,  and  her  voice  trembled  as 
she  spoke,  while  Mrs.  Lyle  stopped  her  knitting  and  looked 
curiously  at  her.  She  had  thought  her  proud  and  haughty,  and 
had  felt  a  little  hurt  by  her  silence  and  reserve,  while  her 
daughter,  in  her  coarser  way,  had  not  hesitated  to  call  her  airy 
and  an  upstart,  wondering  who  she  was  to  feel  so  much  above 
them.  That  she  was  pretty,  even  Jenny  conceded,  while  the 
mother  thought  her  very  beautiful  and  grand.  "  Fit  to  be  a 
duchess,"  was  her  verdict  now,  when  she  saw  her  again  so 
humble  and  sweet,  apologizing  for  her  reserve  of  the  day  before, 
and  asking  to  hear  about  her  poor  dead  boy.  She  liked  to  talk 
of  him,  and  once  launched  upon  the  subject  did  not  know  when 
to  stop,  but  talked  on  and  on,  narrating  incidents  of  his  baby- 
hood, boyhood  and  early  manhood,  while  Edith  listened  with 
hands  clasped  tightly  together  and  a  heart  which  beat  almost 
audibly. 

"And  ye  are  goin'  where  he's  buried,"  Mrs.  Lyle   said  to 


128  THE  BRIDAL  DAYS. 

her.  "And  if  ye  want  an  old  woman's  blessin',  maylike  you'll 
keep  his  grave  fresh  and  clean,  and  send  me  a  posy  from  it 
some  day." 

"  I  will,  I  promise  you  I  will,  and  if  I  can  ever  tell  you  about 
that  girl  who  loved  him,  I  will  do  so,"  Edith  said  vehemently ; 
and  then,  impelled  by  an  impulse  she  could  not  resist,  she  con- 
tinued :  "  Mrs.  Lyle,  I  want  to  ask  you  something  which  you'll 
please  keep  to  yourself.  You  are  old,  and  I  am  young  ;  you 
are  good,  and  I  am  not,  but  I  want  to  be,  so  much.  If  there 
was  something  in  your  life  which  you  supposed  your  husband 
knew,  and  which,  after  you  were  married,  you  found  he  did  not 
know,  though  through  no  fault  of  yours,  and  if  you  felt  almost 
sure  that,  had  he  known  it,  he  would  not  have  married  you,  and 
might  think  less  of  you  now,  would  you  consider  it  your  duty 
to  tell  him  ?  " 

Edith  gasped  out  the  words  and  sat  panting  with  excitement 
and  agitation,  while  Mrs.  Lyle  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then 
replied  in  the  following  words,  which  I  render  in  good  English  : 

"  Is  the  something  which  he  don't  know  a  sin,  a  crime,  a 
wrong  to  him,  or  anybody  ?  " 

"No,  not  a  sin,  or  wrong,  only  a  mistake,"  Edith  replied; 
and  the  woman  continued  : 

"Would  the  withholding  it  now  do  harm  to  any  one  ?  " 

"  No  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  telling  it  might  cause  my  husband 
to  think  less  of  me,  and  make  us  very  unhappy." 

"  Then  if  you  meant  no  wrong,  and  the  telling  it  can  do  no 
good,  and  might  do  harm,  and  no  one  is  interested  but  yourself, 
keep  it  to  yourself,"  Mrs.  Lyle  said,  while  Edith  felt  herself 
growing  light  as  air. 

It  was  strange  how  much  comfort  she  derived  from  Mrs.  Lyle's 
advice,  and  how  much  confidence  she  felt  in  the  judgment  of 
this  woman,  whom  she  had  seen  but  once  before.  It  was  almost 
as  if  absolution  had  been  granted  her  for  her  sins,  past,  present, 
and  to  come,  and  no  religious  devotee  ever  felt  lighter  and  freer 
after  a  full  confession  than  Edith  did  for  a  few  moments  after 
hearing  Mrs.  Lyle's  decision. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  she  said.     "You  have  done  me  so 


THE  BRIDAL   DAYS.  129 

much  good.  I  have  been  so  miserable,  and  there  was  no  one 
whom  I  could  talk  with  about  it.  I  shall  not  forget  you,  Mrs. 
Lyle,  and  sometimes  I  may  perhaps  write  to  you,  and  tell  you 
of  my  home.  And  now  I  must  go;  but  first,  will  you  give  me 
your  blessing.  I  want  it  so  much." 

And  kneeling  before  the  old  lady  Edith  bowed  her  beautiful 
head,  while  a  hand  was  laid  gently  on  her  shining  hair,  and  a 
trembling  voice  said  reverently  :  "  Will  God  bless  and  keep  my 
bonny  child  and  make  her  a  gude  and  happy  wife,  an'  gi'e  her 
many  bairns  to  comfort  her  auld  age." 

She  was  thinking  of  her  Abelard  who  died,  and  Edith  thought 
of  him  too,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  rose  from 
her  knees,  and,  kissing  the  white-haired  woman  who  had  done 
her  so  much  good,  went  out  from  her  presence  with  a  happier, 
lighter  heart  than  she  had  known  for  many  a  day. 

It  was  all  right,  since  Abelard' smother  had  said  so  and  blessed 
her,  and  she  could  be  happy  now,  and  when  her  husband  re- 
turned from  the  castle  he  met  a  very  bright,  beaming  face  at  the 
door  of  his  room,  and  his  young  wife's  arms  were  round  his 
neck,  and  his  wife  herself  was  on  his  knee  when  she  told  him 
that  she  had  been  again  to  see  Mrs.  Lyle,  and  made  ample 
amends  for  all  yesterday's  reserve.  She  did  not  tell  him  of  the 
advice  or  blessing,  but  she  said  : 

"I  know  I  left  a  good  impression,  and  I  promised  to  write 
to  her  some  time  and  tell  her  of  my  home.  She  seems  a  very 
nice  old  lady." 

Col.  Schuyler  kissed  her  glowing  cheek  and  called  her  a  con- 
scientious little  puss,  and  thought  how  very  beautiful  she  was 
in  her  pretty  evening  dress,  with  the  wild  flowers  in  her  hair, 
and  felt  himself  the  most  fortunate  man  in  England  to  possess 
so  much  youth  and  beauty. 

A  few  days  later  found  them  again  at  Oakwood,  where 
Godfrey  met  them  at  the  station  and  saluted  Edith  as  his  "  mam- 
ma," while  his  eyes  danced  with  mischief  and  fun.  He  did  not 
tell  her  of  the  letter  of  dismay  which  had  come  to  him  from 
home  in  answer  to  his  own,  wherein  the  charms  of  the  new 
mother  had  been  so  graphically  described.  But  he  laughed  to 
6* 


13°  THE  BRIDAL  DAYS. 

himself  every  time  he  thought  of  it,  and  what  they  were  pre- 
pared for,  and  then  thought  of  the  rare  type  of  loveliness  whom 
he  teasingly  called  mam-ma,  and  to  whom  he  was  as  attentive 
as  if  he  had  been  her  lover  instead  of  her  step-son.  Robert 
Macpherson  was  still  at  Oakwood,  and  greatly  to  Godfrey's  de- 
light had  decided  upon  going  to  America.  "  The  very  nicest 
chap  in  the  world,"  Godfrey  still  continued  to  think  him,  in 
spite  of  the  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  the  night-shirts  ruffled 
and  buttoned  behind. 

"  But  something  has  come  over  the  spirit  of  his  dream,"  he 
said  to  Edith,  when  talking  of  him.  "  Ever  since  he  came  from 
visiting  those  friends  of  his  he  has  fits  of  melancholy  and  acts  a 
good  deal  like  a  man  in  love,  but  when  I  put  it  to  him  he  denied 
it  indignantly,  and  said  no  girl  whom  he  would  have  would 
ever  marry  him,  and  then  he  went  straight  off  to  see  the  little 
Westbrooke  who  threw  you  that  bouquet,  you  know.  He  is 
wonderfully  struck  with  her,  and  wants  to  paint  her  portrait  as 
a  fancy  piece,  and  call  it  '  La  petite  sxur  ; '  but  that  Rogers' 
dame  guards  her  pet  like  an  old  she-dragon,  and  will  not  let 
Gertie  sit  on  any  account,  even  though  I  promised  to  be  present 
at  the  sittings  and  see  that  fair  play  was  done." 

Edith  smiled  derisively,  and  felt  that  she  did  not  blame  Mrs. 
Rogers  for  objecting  to  Godfrey  Schuyler,  with  his  saucy  eyes 
and  teasing  ways,  as  a  protector  for  her  child.  The  little  girl 
was  going  out  with  them,  Godfrey  said,  and  maybe  Bob  could 
study  her  a  little  on  the  ship.  He  had  made  two  or  three 
sketches  of  her  already,  drawing  from  his  memory,  of  course, 
but  none  of  them  quite  suited  him.  He  must  have  her  sit  to 
him,  and  he, — Godfrey, — thought  it  a  shame  for  that  Rogers' 
woman  to  be  so  much  afraid  of  having  her  protegee  looked  at 
by  such  nice  chaps  as  himself  and  Bob  ! 

Edith  had  never  fairly  seen  the  child  whom  Robert  Macpher- 
son desired  as  a  model  for  "  La  Sceur"  but  she  felt  a  deep  in- 
terest in  her,  both  for  the  blessing  sent  on  her  bridal  day,  and 
because  of  the  strong  affection  the  child  had  inspired  in  Mrs. 
Barrett,  who  seemed  to  feel  worse  at  the  thought  of  parting  with 
her  than  with  Edith  herself. 


THE  BRIDAL  DA  YS.  1 3 : 

The  first  meeting  between  mother  and  daughter  had  been 
rather  cool  and  constrained,  for  Edith  had  lost  confidence  in 
her  parent's  integrity,  and  could  not  help  showing  it.  Still  she 
was  about  to  leave  her,  and  at  the  last,  when  she  went  to  say 
good-by,  her  manner  softened  greatly,  for  in  spite  of  all  it  was 
her  mother  whom  she  kissed  with  many  tears,  and  who  herself 
broke  down  and  cried,  when  the  last  farewell  was  said,  and 
Edith  went  from  her  door  forever.  But  Mrs.  Barrett  did  not 
sob  as  pitifully  then  as  when  an  hour  later  Gertie  Westbrooke 
came  and  hung  about  her  neck  so  lovingly,  and  said  : 

"I  am  sorry  to  leave  you  alone.     I  wish  you  would  go  to." 

Edith  had  not  said  that ;  Edith  did  not  wish  it,  and  Mrs. 
Barrett  knew  why,  but  it  hurt  her  none  the  less,  and  Gertie's 
fond  regrets  and  words  of  love  were  very  dear  to  her. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you,  never  ;  and.  maybe,  if  I  am  ever 
married,  you  shall  live  with  me,  and  be  my  grandma,"  Gertie 
said,  with  a  dim  perception  that  her  friend's  heart  was  sore  with 
a  longing  to  go  with  her  daughter,  who  did  not  want  her ;  and 
then  Mrs.  Barrett  sobbed  aloud,  and  held  the  girl  close  to  her 
bosom,  and  said : 

"  I  never  thought  I  could  love  a  child  as  I  love  you,  little 
Gertie.  I  am  a  hard,  wicked  woman,  no  doubt,  but  I  want 
you  to  be  good,  and  surely  I  may  pray  for  that.  God  bless 
you,  Gertie,  and  make  your  life  as  happy  as  you  are  sweet  and 
pure.  Good-by." 

She  put  the  child  gently  from  her,  and  went  quickly  into  her 
own  room,  where  she  could  be  alone,  and  1  am  almost  certain 
that  the  parting  with  her  daughter  did  not  hurt  her  half  as 
much  as  the  parting  with  Gertie  Westbrooke. 


132  ON  THE  SEA. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

ON   THE    SEA. 

|HEY  had  been  at  sea  three  days,  and  Edith  in  her 
warm  wraps  and  pretty  hood  was  sitting  on  deck  in  the 
large  easy-chair  her  husband  had  bought  in  Liverpool 
for  this  purpose.  Every  comfort  which  ingenuity  could  de- 
vise and  money  pay  for  he  had  procured  for  her  in  order  to 
make  the  voyage  bearable.  One  of  the  largest,  most  commo- 
dious staterooms  was  hers,  so  that  she  need  not  feel  too  much 
confined,  and  when  all  this  did  not  avail  to  avert  the  evils  of 
sea-sickness,  he  and  Norah  nursed  her  assiduously,  until  she 
was  able  to  be  lifted  in  his  arms  and  carried  upon  deck,  where, 
with  the  fresh  breeze  blowing  in  her  face,  she  felt  her  strength 
coming  back,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  blue  expanse  of  sky 
above,  and  the  deep,  dark  waters  beneath,  which  now  were 
smooth  and  quiet  as  a  river.  The  colonel  was  never  sick,  and 
walked  the  planks  from  first  to  last  as  firmly  and  steadily  as  a 
general  at  the  head  of  his  troops  ;  but  alas  for  poor  Godfrey. 
During  the  voyage  out  he  had  been  perfectly  well,  even  in  a 
storm,  and  boasted  much  of  his  ability  to  keep  so. 

"You  have  only  to  exercise  your  will  and  you  are  well 
enough,"  he  said,  with  a  certain  sniff  of  contempt  for  the  weaker 
ones  who  are  never  seen  from  port  to  port.  "  Pluck  is  all  you 
need  to  keep  you  straight,- even  when  chairs  and  tables  and 
shovel  and  tongs  are  dancing  a  cotillon,  and  raising  Ned  gen- 
erally." 

This  was  Godfrey's  opinion,  when  in  his  clean,  light  summer 
suit  he  stepped  airily  on  board  and  gave  his  hand  to  Bob  Mac- 
pherson,  even  then  growing  pale  about  the  lips  and  unsteady 
in  his  feet.  But  when  they  had  been  out  a  few  hours,  and  a 
great  lurch  came,  and  the  waves  broke  over  the  deck,  and 
rolashed  Godfrey's  clean  pants,  and  dashed  the  salt  spray  in  his 
tace,  he,  too,  began  to  turn  white,  and  feel,  as  he  expressed  it, 
as  if  the  ends  of  his  toes  were  coining  up  through  his  stomach 


ON  THE  SEA.  133 

to  pay  his  throat  a  visit,  and  when  the  toes  reached  there  and 
showed  signs  of  going  still  further,  the  young  man  succumbed 
to  his  fate,  and  suddenly  disappearing  from  view,  went  headlong 
into  the  room  where  poor  Bob  had  lain  from  the  first,  caring 
little  whether  his  perfumed  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle  or 
not,  or  his  elaborate  night-shirt  buttoned  before  or  behind. 
Personal  appearance  was  nothing  in  that  stateroom  where  the 
two  young  men  lay,  one  in  the  upper,  one  in  the  under  berth, 
and  both  too  sick  for  more  exertion  than  to  groan,  when  a  swell, 
heavier  than  usual,  sent  them  rolling  on  the  floor.  Regularly 
each  morning  Dan  went  in  to  see  how  it  fared  with  them,  offer- 
ing chicken-broth  and  coffee,  and  bidding  them  "  keep  up  their 
courage  and  have  a  little  pluck ;  it  was  nothing  to  what  it  would 
be." 

To  these  consolatory  remarks  Bob  offered  no  response.  He 
was  too  nearly  crushed  to  speak,  and  afraid,  withal,  to  do  so, 
as  the  least  movement  raised  a  tornado  in  his  stomach ;  but 
Godfrey  was  more  demonstrative,  and  having  plunged  into  bed 
in  his  boots,  which  he  had  succeeded  in  getting  off  and  had  be- 
side him,  he  hurled  one  at  the  head  of  poor  Dan,  who  adroitly 
dodged  it  and  then  graciously  adjusted  the  spittoon,  knowing 
it  would  be  needed  after  such  exertion.  And  it  was  ! 

"  Talk  to  me  of  pluck  !  "  Godfrey  said,  between  the  upheav- 
ings  which  nearly  burst  his  throat;  "I  believe  my  soul  I'm 
throwing  mine  up!"  and  then  he  lay  back  upon  his  pillow, 
white,  quivering  and  subdued,  and  took  a  swallow  of  the  broth 
and  declared  it  was  made  of  dishwater,  and  bade  Dan  clear  out 
and  never  show  himself  there  again. 

Regularly,  twice  each  day,  the  colonel  visited  his  son,  and 
made  set  speeches  to  him,  and  bade  him  try  to  dress  himself 
and  get  on  deck,  where  the  air  would  soon  restore  him. 

"  Mrs.  Schuyler  is  there,  and  nearly  well,  and  she  was  as  bad 
as  you,  and  worse,  for  she  could  not  flounce  as  you  do.  A  lit- 
tle effort  of  the  will  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  set  you  on  your 
legs." 

Unconsciously,  he  was  quoting  Godfrey's  own  words,  and 
poor  Bob  ventured  a  little  chuckle,  which  he  paid  for  afterward, 


134  ON  THE  SEA. 

while  Godfrey  wished  there  was  no  such  commandment  as  the 
third,  so  that  he  might  free  his  mind  for  once. 

And  how,  these  days,  had  it  fared  with  little  Gertie,  the 
second-class  passenger,  whose  state-room  was  small  and  close 
and  hot,  for  the  window  had  been  closed  and  fastened  since  the 
water  came  in  with  a  dash  and  wet  the  little  hard  bed.  Poor 
Gertie,  how  the  ship  tumbled  and  rolled  a'xl  tossed,  and  how 
she  tossed  and  rolled  and  tumbled  with  ",  and  clutched  at 
everything  in  her  reach,  with  a  feeling  that  they  were  tipping 
over  and  she  was  standing  on  her  head.  And  how  the  cold, 
clammy  sweat  stood  on  her  face  and  hands,  and  the  dreadful, 
death-like  faintness  cre^t  from  her  feet  through  every  nerve,  as, 
with  fearful  contortions,  her  stomach  tried  in  vain  to  relieve  it- 
self, and  she  fell  back,  panting  and  helpless,  upon  the  hard, 
scant  pillow.  It  was  horrible,  and  the  poor  child  wished  so 
much  that  she  could  die,  or  that  the  ship  would  stop  for  just 
one  minute,  and  give  her  time  to  breathe,  even  though  it  were 
the  fetid  air,  which  almost  stifled  her  and  made  her  long  so  for 
the  hedge-rows  and  fields  of  dear  old  England,  now  so  far  away. 
But  Gertie  did  not  die,  and  the  vessel  did  not  stop,  and  the 
window  was  not  opened.  She  was  merely  second-class,  and  it 
was  not  worth  one's  while  to  open  and  shut  windows  just  for 
her ;  and  though  Mary  Rogers  did  all  she  could  for  her  sick 
child,  and  brought  her  many  things  to  tempt  her  appetite, 
Gertie  turned  from  them  all,  and  sobbed  piteously,  "  I  am  so 
sick, — shall  we  ever  get  there  ?  Is  everybody  sick,  and  are  all 
the  rooms  as  close  and  hot  and  small  ?  Where  is  the  pretty 
lady,  Mrs.  Schuyler  ?  I  wish  she'd  come  and  see  me.  I  think 
I  should  be  better.  Would  you  dare  ask  her  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rogers  did  not  know  whether  she  dared  or  not.  She 
would  see,  she  said,  and  when  that  afternoon  she  saw  Edith  on 
deck,  she  ventured  upon  some  trivial  remark  as  the  cousin  of 
Norah,  and  finally  spoke  of  her  little  girl,  who  was  suffering  so 
much. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  Gertie  Westbrooke.  I  remember  now.  She  was 
to  go  with  us  ;  and  you  are  Mrs.  Rogers,  Norah's  cousin,  and 
the  little  girl  is  very  sick  and  uncomfortable  ;  I  am  so  sorry 


ON  THE  SEA,  135 

for  her.  I  know  just  how  it  feels.  Can  I  do  anything  for 
her  ?  " 

Mary  hesitated  and  then  said  : 

"  She  has  felt  interested  in  you  since  the  day  you  were  mar- 
ried. She  was  there." 

"  Yes,  and  threw  me  the  pretty  bouquet,"  Edith  said ;  and 
Mary  continued  : 

"  She  talks  a  great  deal  of  you,  and  thinks  now  if  you  could 
come  and  see  her  it  would  do  her  good ;  but,  ma'am,  I  told 
her  how  it  wasn't  likely  you  would  or  could  do  that.  Our 
room  is  very  small  and  close,  and  the  pillows  are  so  hard  and 
poor." 

"  I  do  not  believe  I  can  go  now ;  I  am  hardly  strong 
.  enough,"  Edith  said  ;  "  but  I  will  come  some  day  if  she  does 
not  get  well ;  and  now  carry  her  this  soft  shawl ;  it  will  answer 
for  a  pillow.  I  do  not  need  it  at  all,  and  Norah  shall  take  her 
some  oranges  and  wine." 

Mary  demurred  at  the  shawl,  but  Edith  insisted,  and  remem- 
bered the  oranges  and  wine,  which  so  refreshed  the  child  that 
she  slept  soundly  that  night  with  Edith's  shawl  for  a  pillow,  and 
a  dream  of  Edith  in  her  heart. 

The  next  day  she  was  better,  and  Mary  took  the  shawl  back 
to  Edith,  who  was  again  on  deck,  with  her  husband  standing 
beside  her. 

"  Poor  thing,"  Edith  said,  kindly  ;  "  I  .am  glad  she  is  better. 
Tell  her  I'll  come  and  see  her  when  I  can,  and  as  soon  as  she 
is  able  to  be  moved  I'll  have  her  brought  up  to  my  stateroom 
for  a  while  ;  it  must  be  dreadful  there  with  the  windows  shut 
and  the  air  so  close  and  confined." 

She  glanced  at  her  husband,  whose  face  was  overcast. 

"  Who  is  this  woman  and  who  is  the  child  you  propose  mov- 
ing into  our  stateroom  ? "  he  asked,  stiffly,  when  Mary  was 
gone  ;  and  Edith  replied  by  telling  him  what  she  knew  of  Ger- 
tie Westbrooke  and  her  mother. 

Colonel  Schuyler  could  reproach  Edith  for  seeming  cold  and 
proud  toward  the  Lyles,  to  whom  he  felt  that  he  owed  some- 
thing, but  he  was  far  from  wishing  her  to  treat  people  like 


I36  ON  THE  SEA. 

Mary  Rogers  with  any  show  of  familiarity.  There  his  pride 
came  in  strongly,  and  he  said  to  her  at  once  : 

"  You  can  send  the  child  any  delicacy  you  choose,  and  I 
will  see  that  her  window  is  opened  so  she  can  have  air,  but  she 
must  not  be  brought  to  our  stateroom  ;  and  if  she  slept  on 
your  shawl,  as  it  seems  she  did,  I  desire  you  to  give  it  to  her 
altogether.  You  surely  will  never  wear  it  again.  Norah  ?  " 

And  he  turned  to  their  maid,  who  stood  near  : 

"  Take  this  shawl  to  your  cousin's  child  and  tell  her  Mrs. 
Schuyler  sent  it,  and  wishes  her  to  keep  it." 

Norah  looked  wonderingly  at  him,  while  Edith  blushed  pain- 
fully, but  neither  said  a  word,  and  after  Norah  was  gone  with 
the  shawl  Colonel  Schuyler  continued  :  "  I  do  not  wish  to  dis- 
tress you,  my  dear,  or  to  interfere  with  your  actions  unneces- 
sarily, but  I  think  it  just  as  well  not  to  have  too  much  to  do  with 
the  lower  class  unless,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Lyles,  we  are  under 
obligations  to  them.  And  as  this  Rogers  child  is  nothing  to  us, 
you  are  not  called  upon  to  visit  her.  She  will  soon  recover. 
Such  people  always  do.  I'll  go  now  and  speak  about  the 
window." 

He  felt  uncomfortable  and  wished  to  get  away,  for  he  did 
not  quite  like  the  grieved  look  in  Edith's  eyes,  or  the  pained 
expression  of  her  face.  Edith  herself  could  not  tell  why  his 
words  hurt  her  as  they  did,  or  why  she  felt  so  interested  in  the 
sick  girl  whom  she  had  as  yet  never  seen  distinctly.  But  she 
was  interested  in  her,  and  though  she  did  not  visit  her  as  she 
had  intended  doing,  she  sent  her  many  delicacies  and  a  pillow 
from  her  stateroom,  and  felt  almost  as  much  pleased  as  Mary 
Rogers  herself  when  she  heard  at  last  that  she  was  better. 

Gertie  had  been  very  sick,  and  her  bright  color  was  all 
gone,  and  her  round  cheeks  looked  thin  and  wan,  when  at 
last  Mary  dressed  her  in  her  warm  wrapper,  with  its  facings  of 
pink,  and  then  folding  Edith's  shawl  about  her  carried  her  on 
deck,  and  propping  her  up  with  pillows  and  cushions  made  her 
as  comfortable  as  she  could. 

Though  pale  and  worn  with  marks  of  suffering  on  her  face 
and  in  her  soft  blue  eyes,  Gertie  was  pretty  still,  and  made  a 


ON'  THE  SEA.  137 

very  attractive  picture  as  she  sat  in  her  quiet  corner  with  a 
book,  whose  pages  she  was  turning  listlessly,  when  she  heard 
footsteps  approaching  her,  and  a  voice  exclaimed  : 

"  Hallo,  Bob,  by  George,  if  there  isn't  '  La  Sceur,'  looking  like 
a  little  ghost ;  here,  this  way  ;  "  and  Godfrey  Schuyler,  who  was 
also  better  and  able  to  be  up,  came  quickly  to  her  side,  followed 
by  Robert  Macpherson,  who  moved  more  slowly  and  showed 
more  signs  of  weakness  than  the  active,  restless  Godfrey. 

Robert  Macpherson  had  seen  and  talked  with  Gertie  at  her 
lodgings  near  Oakwood,  and  had  asked  her  to  sit  for  her  picture, 
and  she  had  said  she  would,  and  a  day  had  been  appointed  for 
the  sitting,  when  Mary  Rogers  interfered  and  refused  in  toto, 
and  kept  her  child  so  close  that  neither  Robert  nor  Godfrey  saw 
her  again  except  in  her  aunt's  company  or  through  the  window 
of  her  room. 

Godfrey,  indeed,  had  only  spoken  to  her  once,  and  that  when 
she  sat  in  the  door  eating  blackberries,  her  lips  and  pretty  fin- 
gers stained  wi{h  the  juice,  and  her  bright  hair  falling  about  her 
face.  Mrs.  Rogers  had  come  upon  him  then  just  as  he  was  go 
ing  to  make  some  flattering  speech,  and  called  her  little  girl 
away,  and  he  had  not  seen  her  since  until  now,  when  he  es- 
teemed it  a  great  piece  of  luck  to  stumble  thus  upon  her  with 
the  dragon  out  of  sight.  Gertie  knew  him,  and  a  pleased  smile 
broke  over  her  face  and  shone  in  her  eyes,  when  he  stopped 
before  her  and  asked  if  she  had  been  sick  and  how  she  liked  the 
feeling  of  it.  She  did  not  like  it  at  all,  and  she  and  Godfrey 
grew  very  social  and  sympathetic  as  they  compared  notes,  he 
going  far  ahead  of  her,  of  course,  inasmuch  as  he  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  draw  upon  his  imagination  when  necessary,  while  she 
adhered  strictly  to  the  truth,  saying  only  that  she  felt  at  times 
as  if  she  were  standing  on  her  head,  while  he  averred  that  he  did 
stand  on  his  head  until  he  was  black  in  the  face.  She  did  not  be- 
lieve him,  but  she  laughed  merrily  at  his  droll  sayings,  and  then 
acquaintance  was  progressing  rapidly  when  he  asked  what  she 
was  reading,  and  stooped  down  beside  her  to  see  the  title-page. 

Godfrey  was  very  fond  of  little  girls,  and  this  one  had  inter- 
ested him  greatly  from  the  time  he  first  saw  her  in  the  cab  on 


138  ON  THE  SEA. 

Caledonia  Street,  and  now  as  he  bent  his  face  so  close  to  hers  that 
his  brown  curls  touched  her  auburn  hair,  he  could  not  resist  the 
temptation,  but  snatched  a  kiss  from  her  lips  ere  she  was  aware 
of  his  intention.  Though  small  of  stature  Gertie  was  twelve 
years  old,  and  very  womanly  in  some  respects,  and  at  this 
liberty  all  her  instincts  of  modesty  and  propriety  awoke  within 
her,  and  while  the  hot  tears  glittered  in  her  eyes,  which  flashed 
angrily  upon  the  offender,  she  said : 

"  You  stop  !  You  mustn't !  You  shan't !  You  have 
no  business  to  kiss  me,  Mr.  Godfrey,  and  I  am  very  indig- 
nant ! "  , 

She  wiped  her  lips  two  or  three  times,  while  Godfrey,  who 
considered  it  a  good  joke,  and  was  vastly  amused  at  her  rage, 
said  to  her : 

"  Why  oughtn't  I  to  kiss  a  pretty  girl  like  you  when  I  find 
her  all  alone  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  alone,"  Gertie  replied,  with  a  very  wise  shake 
of  the  head.  "Because  men  like  you  shouldn!t  kiss  girls  like 
me  whom  they  don't  like." 

"But  I  do  like  you  immensely,"  Godfrey  said,  "and  think 
you  the  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw." 

"  Hush  !  "  Gertie  rejoined,  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  woman 
of  twenty.  "You  shall  not  talk  to  me  like  that,  and  you 
wouldn't  either  if  I  was  somebody  else." 

"  Who,  for  instance  ?  "  Godfrey  asked,  and  looking  him  stead- 
ily in  the  face,  with  her  clear,  honest  eyes,  Gertie  said  : 

"  Mr.  Godfrey,  if  I  were  one  of  your  sisters  would  you  have 
done  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  have  a  right  to  kiss  my  sister,"  Godfrey  said, 
and  Gertie  continued  : 

"I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean  if  you  were  somebody  else  and 
I  was  one  of  your  sisters." 

"  Still  wrong,"  Godfrey  said,  "  for  even  if  I  were  somebody 
else  and  you  my  sister  I  would  kiss  you  many  times." 

He  would  not  understand,  and  Gertie  glanced  appealingly  at 
Robert  Macpherson,  who  had  been  listening  languidly,  while 
with  an  artist's  interest  he  attentively  studied  the  little  face 


ON  THE  SEA.  139 

which  so  puzzled  and  attracted  him.  As  he  met  her  glance  he 
came  a  step  nearer  to  her,  and  said : 

"  Let  me  tell  you  how  to  put  it.    Suppose  you  are  my  sister  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  gentleman  born  ?  "  Gertie  asked,  while  the  young 
man  colored  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  answered  : 

"  I  believe  I  am." 

"  Well,  then,"  and  she  turned  again  to  Godfrey,  "  suppose  I 
was  his  sister  and  you  were  yourself,  and  you  found  me  a  sick, 
tired  little  girl,  sitting  by  myself,  would  you  have  dared  to  kiss 
me  then  ?  " 

There  was  in  her  manner  so  much  sweetness  and  dignity 
withal  that  languid  Bob  roused  in  her  behalf,  and  said  : 

"  If  he  did  I'd  knock  him  down,"  while  Godfrey,  wholly  driven 
to  bay,  answered  humbly  : 

"  No,  Miss  Gertie,  I  would  not,  and  I  beg  your  pardon,  and 
assure  you  I  meant  no  harm,  but  really  you  looked  so  pretty, 
so  piquant e " 

"  You  must  not  tell  me  that  either,"  Gertie  said.  "  I'm  glad 
if  you  think  me  pretty,  and  glad  to  have  you  like  me,  but  you 
mustn't  tell  me  so.  It's  very  bad,  for  Auntie  Rogers  says  young 
men  like  you  never  talk  to  girls  like  me  for  good,  and  I  must 
not  let  you." 

"What  kind  of  a  girl  are  you,  pray  ?  "  Godfrey  asked,  feeling 
more  and  more  amused  and  interested  with  this  quaint  little 
creature,  who  replied  : 

"  I  am  poor,  and  have  not  any  relatives  except  a  grand- 
mother, and  I  don't  know  where  she  is.  But  my  mother  was  a 
lady,  auntie  says,  and  I  once  lived  in  a  big  house  with  servants, 
and  auntie  was  my  nurse.  I  don't  know  where  it  was  or  why 
I  left  it  when  mother  died.  Auntie  does  not  tell  me,  and  she 
is  so  kind,  and  I  have  forty  pounds  a  year  of  my  own,  and 
maybe  I  shall  learn  a  trade,  or  teach  school  in  America,  and 
some  time  marry  respectably,  but  I'm  not  the  kind  of  girl  for 
a  man  like  you  to  kiss  and  talk  to." 

"  Gertie,  you  are  a  brick  ! "  came  emphatically  from  the 
amused  Godfrey,  who  felt  a  great  desire  to  kiss  the  full  lips 
again  in  his  admiration  of  the  child. 


140  Off  THE  SEA. 

But  he  dared  not  do  it.  Indeed,  there  was  something  about 
her  which  inspired  him  with  a  respect  such  as  he  had  never  be- 
fore felt  for  a  girl,  and  as  he  told  Robert  Macphersoh  in  con- 
fidence, he  wanted  to  crawl  into  his  boots  when,  after  his  asser- 
tion that  she  was  a  brick,  she  lifted  her  eyes  so  wonderingly, 
and  said  : 

"I'm  a  what?  " 

"  A  brick,"  he  answered  ;  "  don't  you  know  what  that  is  ?  " 

".Yes,  I  know  it  in  its  place  ;  but  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean  when  you  give  the  name  to  me.  Nothing  bad,  I  hope." 

"  Certainly  not ;  it's  a  compliment.  I  called  you  so  because 
I  like  you  and  think  you  smart, — clever,  you  English  would  say, 
I  suppose." 

And  Godfrey  began  to  shake  down  his  pants,  and  stand  first 
on  one  foot  and  then  upon  the  other,  in  his  perplexity  how  to 
appear  well  in  the  mind  of  this  little  girl,  who  was  so  young, 
and  innocent,  and  honest,  and  yet  so  old  in  some  things. 

"  That's  slang,  isn't  it  ?  "   Gertie  asked. 

And  he  replied  : 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  would  be  called  so,  but  it  is  very  expres- 
sive. Don't  you  like  slang  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not,  and  I  don't  see  why  nice  people  like  you 
should  use  it  so  much." 

"  Do  I  use  it  so  much  ?  "   Godfrey  asked. 

And  the  girl  replied  : 

"  I  heard  you  once  at  Oakwood,  when  you  did  not  know  I 
was  there  in  the  kitchen,  say  '  by  George,'  and  '  by  Jove,'  three 
times  right  along,  and  you  called  your  father  the  '  governor,' 
and  one  of  the  maids  said  she  supposed  it  was  Yankee  slang." 

Godfrey's  face  was  scarlet  at  this  reproof,  which  he  knew  he 
merited,  and  for  a  moment  he  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Soon 
rallying,  however,  he  said,  good-naturedly  : 

"  I  guess  I  am  rather  given  to  slang, — the  girls  at  home  nag 
me  about  it  all  the  time,  and  I  do  it  to  tease  them  ;  but  I'll 
quit  it  now,  by  Jo — I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not  know  I  was 
&o  given  to  it,  and  I  will  reform,  by  George  !  There  !  that  was 
to  finish  up." 


ON  THE  SEA.  141 

And  Godfrey  laughed  heartily  at  himself,  while  Gertie,  too, 
joined  in  the  laugh,  and  thought  how  handsome  he  was,  and 
what  white,  even  teeth  he  had,  and  hoped  he  was  not  angry 
with  her.  So  when  he  said  to  her  next :  "  Gertie,  if  I  really 
try  to  reform  and  quit  my  slang,  will  you  promise  to  like  me  a 
little  ?  "  she  answered  quickly  :  "  Yes,  and  I  like  you  now, — 
some,  you  know, — though  I  did  not  like  you  to  stare  at  me 
so  when  I  was  in  the  cab  at  Mrs.  Barrett's  gate  ;  but  when  I 
saw  you  in  church  at  the  wedding,  I  thought  you  very  nice, 
and  kept  on  thinking  so  until  you  kissed  me,  when  I  was 
very  angry  ;  but  I'm  over  it  now,  and  you'll  never  kiss  me 
again." 

That  was  a  fixed  fact  in  her  mind,  but  Godfrey  was  not  so 
sure  of  it,  and  he  said  to  her  seriously  : 

"  Gertie,  I  am  sure  you  are  very  good  and  generous,  and  I 
really  mean  to  reform,  and  I  want  you  to  promise  me  one  thing. 
You  are  going  to  Hampstead,  I  believe  ?  " 

Yes,  Gertie  supposed  she  was,  "  but,"  she  added,  "  I  shall 
not  see  you,  of  course." 

"  Why  not  ?"  he  asked,  and  she  replied  : 

"Why,  don't  you  know?  You  are  rich  and  we  are  poor. 
You  live  in  the  great  house,  and  we  are  your  tenants  ;  that  is, 
I  believe  auntie  is  to  rent  a  cottage  of  your  father,  if  it  is  not 
too  high.  We  cannot  give  much,  for  auntie  lost  her  shares  in 
the  bank  last  summer,  and  now  she  must  'do  fluting  and  clear- 
starching and  sewing  for  our  living,  as  she  will  not  touch  my 
forty  pounds  ;  that  she  says  is  for  my  education,  and  I  do  so 
want  to  learn  music.  We  can  live  on  most  nothing,  only  the 
rent  takes  money.  Will  it  be  very  much  ?  " 

"  No,  not  much,"  Godfrey  replied,  a  sudden  thought  flashing 
into  his  mind  upon  which  he  resolved  to  act,  but  not  till  he  had 
made  his  compact  with  Gertie. 

"You  did  not  let  me  finish,"  he  said  ;  "  I  want  to  make  a 
bargain  with  you,  which  is  This  :  I  am  to  reform,  and  you  are  to 
tell  me  from  time  to  time  if  I  am  improving,  and  when  you 
really  think  I  am  a  perfect  gentleman,  you  are  to  let  me  kiss 
you  again.  Is  it  a  fair  bargain  ?  " 


142  ON  THE  SEA. 

Gertie  considered  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  the  utmost 
gravity  : 

"  Ye-es, — I  don't  believe  there  would  be  any  harm  in  it,  inas- 
much as  you  did  it  for  pay." 

"  Then  it  is  a  bargain,  and  I  begin  from  this  minute  to  be  a 
gentleman,"  Godfrey  cried,  but  his  zeal  was  a  little  dampened 
by  Gertie's  next  remark. 

"  It  may  be  a  long  time,  Mr.  Godfrey,  and  I'll  be  grown  up, 
and  then  it  would  not  be  proper  at  all." 

Here  Robert  Macpherson  burst  into  a  loud  laugh  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Better  give  it  up,  Schuyler  ;  the  child  is  too  much  for  you." 

But  Godfrey  was  not  inclined  to  give  it  up,  and  said  : 

"  A  bargain  is  a  bargain,  Miss  Gertie,  and  I  shall  claim  my 
reward  if  it  is  not  until  you  are  a  hundred.  How  old  are  you, 
little  one?" 

"Twelve  going  on  thirteen.     How  old  are  you  ?" 

"Eighteen,  going  on  nineteen,"  was  Godfrey's  answer,  and 
as  he  just  then  saw  his  father  in  a  distant  part  of  the  vessel,  he 
touched  his  hat  and  svalked  away  to  set  in  train  the  plan  he  had 
in  his  mind  for  benefiting  Gertie  Westbrooke. 

She  interested  him  greatly,  and  he  wished  to  do  her  good, 
and  joining  his  father,  he  said  : 

"  By  the  way,  father,  have  you  decided  which  house  you  will 
rent  to  Mrs.  Rogers?" 

"  Rent  to  whom  ?  "  Colonel  Schuyler  asked.  "  Who  is  Mrs. 
Rogers?" 

He  had  forgotten  her  for  the  moment,  but  when  Godfrey  ex- 
plained that  she  was  Norah's  cousin,  he  remembered  that  some- 
thing had  been  said  about  her  having  one  of  his  cottages,  but 
he  had  not  decided  which  one.  Why,  what  did  it  matter  to 
Godfrey  ? 

"  It  matters  this,"  Godfrey  said.  "  You  know  my  house, 
which  you  gave  me  for  my  own.  Perry  wrote  me  a  few  days 
before  we  sailed  that  the  tenant  had  left  it  suddenly,  and  there 
was  no  one  in  it.  Now,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  let  it  to 
Mrs.  Rogers." 


ON  THE  SEA.  143 

"  Certainly,  let  it  to  her  if  you  like,"  the  colonel  said,  pleased 
to  see  in  his  son  what  he  thought  a  business  proclivity,  and  a 
wish  to  make  the  most  of  his  property. 

He  little  guessed  that  it  was  Godfrey's  interest  in  Gertie 
which  prompted  him  to  wish  to  see  her  in  his  own  cottage,  the 
best  by  far  of  all  the  houses  known  as  the  Schuyler  tenements. 
It  was  not  new  like  many  of  them,  but  it  was  very  commodious 
and  pretty,  with  a  wealth  of  vines  creeping  over  the  porch,  a 
rose  tree  near  the  door,  from  which  Edith  herself  had  plucked 
the  sweet  blossoms,  and  twined  them  in  her  hair,  for  Godfrey's 
cottage  was  the  very  house  where  Mrs.  Fordham  once  lived, 
and  from  which  Abelard  Lyle  was  carried  to  the  grave.  And 
Gertie  Westbrooke  was  going  there,  and  Godfrey  was  already 
thinking  how,  as  soon  as  he  reached  New  York,  he  would  tele- 
graph to  Perry  to  have  the  house  cleaned  throughout  and  put 
in  perfect  repair  for  his  new  tenants. 

Meantime  Robert  Macpherson  was  puzzling  himself  over 
Gertie's  face  and  its  resemblance  to  another. 

"  How  can  they  be  so  like,  and  yet  nothing  to  each  other  ?  " 
he  said,  and  once,  when  an  opportunity  occurred,  he  questioned 
the  child  closely  with  regard  to  her  antecedents,  but  elicited 
little  more  information  than  she  had .  already  given  Godfrey  in 
his  hearing. 

"  She  was  Gertie  Westbrooke,  born  in  London,  January  — , 
1 8 — .  She  had  lived  for  a  while  in  a  big  house,  with  her  mother, 
whom  she  could  just  remember,  and  who  died  when  she  was  two 
years  old,  and  then  a  new  mother  came,  who  was  very  cross, 
and  Mary  Rogers,  her  nurse,  took  her  away,  and  had  been  so 
good  to  her  ever  since." 

"And  your  father?"  Robert  asked.  "Where  is  he?  Do 
you  never  see  him  ?  " 

"  He  was  cross,  too,  and  drank  too  much  wine,"  Gertie 
said  ;  "  and  auntie  says  he's  dead,  and  I  guess  I  hain't  any  rela- 
tives now,  but  a  grandmother,  and  I  don't  know  where  she  is. 
I  heard  auntie  tell  a  woman  once  that  I  had  a  history  stranger 
than  a  story-book,  but  when  I  asked  her  about  it  she  looked 
cross,  and  bade  me  never  listen,  and  said  if  there  was  anything 


144  ON  THE  SEA, 

I  ought  to  know,  she  would  surely  tell  me.  Sometimes  when  I 
see  grand  people,  I  think,  maybe,  I  am  one  of  them,  for  I  feel 
just  as  they  act,  and  could  act  just  like  them,  if  I  tried." 

"  Maybe  you  are  a  princess  in  disguise,"  Robert  said,  laying 
his  hand  kindly  on  the  bright  flowing  hair.  "  Gertie,  do  you 
know  you  are  the  very  image  of  the  only  sister  I  ever  had  ? 
Dorothea  was  the  name,  but  I  called  her  Dora,  and  loved  her 
so  much." 

"  And  she  died  ?  "  Gertie  said,  guessing  the  fact  from  the 
tremor  in  the  young  man's  voice  and  the  moisture  in  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  she  died,  and  I  have  no  picture  of  her,  and  that  is  why 
I  wanted  you  to  sit  for  me.  You  are  so  much  like  her.  May- 
be if  you  tell  your  aunt  the  reason  she  will  allow  it  when  we 
reach  America.  I  am  going  to  Hampstead,  too,  for  a  time,  to 
visit  Mr.  Godfrey.  Will  you  speak  to  her  about  it  ?  " 

Gertie  promised  that  she  would,  and  kept  her  word,  and 
Mrs.  Rogers  said  she  would  see,  which  Gertie  took  as  an  affir- 
mative reply  and  reported  to  the  young  man,  telling  him,  too, 
that  auntie  had  forbidden  her  to  talk  much  with  him,  and  tell- 
ing Godfrey  that  he  must  not  come  where  she  was,  for  auntie 
did  not  like  it,  and  said  it  was  "  no  good." 

"  And  I  didn't  tell  her,  either,  that  you  kissed  me  ;  if  I  had, 
she  would  have  been  angry,  and  maybe  shut  me  up  in  that 
close,  dark  stateroom  ;  but  you  are  never  to  do  it  again." 

"  No,  not  till  you  say  you  think  me  a  perfect  gentleman  ; 
then  I  shall  claim  my  reward,"  Godfrey  said,  laughingly,  and 
as  Mary  Rogers  appeared  in  view,  with  the  look  of  a  terma- 
gant on  her  face,  he  turned  his  back  on  Gertie  and  pretended 
to  be  very  intent  upon  a  sail  just  appearing  in  the  distant 
horizon. 


THE  LADIES  AT  SCHUYLER   HILL.  145 

CHAPTER  XXL 

THE    LADIES   AT    SCHUYLER  HILL. 

]ISS  CHRISTINE  ROSSITER,  aged  46  :  Miss  Alice 
Creighton,  aged  17;  Miss  Julia  Schuyler,  aged  16  ; 
and  Miss  Emma,  aged  14.  These  were  the  ladies 
who,  a  good  portion  of  the  year,  were  domesticated  at  Schuyler 
Hill,  and  of  whom  I  will  speak  in  order  ;  and  first  of  Miss  Ros- 
siter,  whose  personal  appearance  and  peculiarities  Godfrey 
had  of  course  exaggerated  when  he  talked  of  her  to  Edith. 
She  was  his  mother's  sister,  and  forty-six,  and  had  once  been 
engaged  to  a  young  man  who  left  her  all  his  money,  and  for 
whom  she  wore  black  half  a  dozen  years,  during  which  time 
she  gave  herself  to  the  church,  and  went  so  far  as  to  think  of 
turning  Romanist,  and  hiding  her  grief  in  a  convent.  But  she 
recovered  from  that,  and  being  good-looking,  and  only  thirty, 
with  a  fortune  of  half  a  million,  she  went  back  to  the  world 
again,  and  became  a  belle,  for  she  was  a  handsome  woman, 
still,  and  at  times  exceedingly  brilliant  and  witty,  the  result,  it 
was  whispered  at  last,  of  opium-eating  in  secret.  This  habit 
she  had  contracted  during  her  seclusion,  with  a  view  to  deaden 
her  grief,  and  make  her  sleep  at  night.  And  after  the  grief 
was  over  the  habit  remained,  and  grew  upon  her  constantly, 
until  now  she  was  never  without  her  vial  of  the  deadly  stuff, 
and  her  nerves  were  completely  shattered  with  the  poison. 

Exceedingly  proud  and  exclusive,  she  held  herself  above  the 
most  of  her  acquaintances,  and  made  them  feel  that  she  did, 
and  still  exercised  over  them  an  influence  which  would  draw 
every  one  of  them  to  her  side  when  she  wished  them  to  come. 

Few  women  understood  the  art  of  dressing  better  than  she 
did,  and  when  arrayed  in  evening  costume,  with  her  diamonds 
and  her  lace,  she  was  still  a  very  handsome  and  attractive  wo- 
man, capable  of  entertaining  a  roomful  of  guests,  and  keeping 
them  delighted  with  her  ready  wit  and  brilliant  repartees.  She 
should  never  marry,  she  said,  and  yet  more  than  Godfrey  be- 
7 


146  THE  LADIES  AT  SCHUYLER   HILL. 

lieved  that  she  had  no  objection  to  becoming  Mrs.  Schuyler 
second,  if  only  she  were  asked  to  do  so.  Since  her  sister's 
death  she  had  spent  most  of  her  time  at  the  Hill,  giving  as  an 
excuse  that  "  Emily's  children  needed  a  mother's  care  so 
badly,"  while  Howard  was  always  happier  to  have  her  there. 

Of  this  last  there  might  have  been  two  opinions,  but  the  colo- 
nel was  a  peaceable  man,  and  always  made  her  welcome,  and 
humored  her  whims  and  listened  to  her  advice  when  he  chose 
to  do  so,  and  offered  no  remonstrance  when  she  appropriated 
to  herself  the  very  be;t  and  pleasantest  room  in  the  house,  the 
one  with  the  bay-window  overlooking  the  river  and  the  moun- 
tains, and  which,  as  it  chanced  to  be  in  the  south  wing,  was  one 
of  the  suite  intended  for  Edith,  and  which  she  surrendered,  with 
what  reluctance  we  shall  see  hereafter. 

Alice  Creighton  was  Col.  Schuyler's  ward  and  the  niece  of 
the  wife  of  Mrs.  Schuyler's  half  brother,  the  Rev.  John  Calvert, 
who  lived  in  New  York,  and  whose  house  was  properly  her 
home,  though  she  spent  much  of  her  time  at  Schuyler  Hill, 
where  her  education  was  progressing  under  the  direction  of 
Miss  BroAvning,  the  governess.  Short,  fat,  and  chubby,  with 
light  hair  and  eyes  and  complexion,  and  a  nose  that  turned  up 
decidedly,  she  was  not  very  pretty,  save  as  young,  happy  girl- 
hood is  always  pretty,  but  she  was  very  stylish,  which  answered 
instead  of  beauty,  and  made  her  remarked  wherever  she  went. 
Whatever  was  fashionable  she  wore  in  the  extreme,  and  at  the 
little  church  in  Hampstead  there  was  on  Sundays  a  great  deal 
of  curiosity  among  the  village  girls  to  see  the  last  new  style,  as 
represented  by  Miss  Creighton.  And  after  they  saw  it  they 
copied  it  as  far  as  was  possible,  and  then  found  to  their  surprise 
that  what  they  had  adopted  as  the  latest  in  the  beau-monde, 
was  laid  aside  for  something  later  by  their  mirror  of  fashion. 

She  expected  to  marry  Godfrey,  for  the  arrangement  had  been 
settled  between  her  father,  before  he  died,  and  Col.  Howard 
Schuyler  ;  and  Alice  acquiesced  in  it,  and  looked  confidently 
forward  to  a  time  when  she  would  have  a  house  of  her  own  and 
furnish  it  as  no  house  in  New  York  had  ever  yet  been  furnished, 
and  keep  seven  servants  at  least,  with  horses  and  carriages,  and 


THE   LADIES  A  7'  SCHUYLER  HILL.  147 

nothing  to  do  from  morning  till  night  but  enjoy  herself,  and  be 
envied  in  doing  it.  To  all  this  grandeur  Godfrey  would  be  a 
very  proper  appendage.  He  was  good-looking,  and  came  from 
a  family  superior  even  to  her  own  ;  he  could  be  a  gentleman 
when  he  chose,  and  would  look  very  nicely  beside  her  in  the 
Park  and  at  the  opera,  and  when  she  entered  the  drawing-rooms 
l>n  Fifth  Avenue  on  some  festive  occasion. 

This  was  Miss  Alice  Creighton,  as  nearly  as  I  can  daguerreo- 
type her  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  while  Julia  Schuyler  was 
much  like  her  in  disposition,  but  different  in  looks. 

Julia  was  tall  and  slender,  and  a  brunette,  with  clear,  olive 
complexion,  high  color,  sparkling  black  eyes,  and  a  quantity  of 
glossy,  black  hair,  of  which  she  was  very  proud,  and  which  she 
usually  wore  becomingly,  let  the  fashion  be  what  it  might. 
Some  people  called  her  beautiful,  but  that  she  could  never  be 
with  her  wide  mouth  and  large  ears,  but  she  certainly  was  hand- 
some and  bright,  and  could,  if  she  chose,  be  very  agreeable 
and  fascinating,  but,  except  with  her  equals,  she  did  not  often 
choose,  and  was  known  in  town  as  a  proud,  haughty  girl,  caring 
only  for  herself  and  the  few  favored  ones  belonging  to  her  cir- 
cle. And  yet  she  taught  in  Sunday-school,  and  made  dresses 
and  aprons  for  the  poor,  and  esteemed  herself  almost  a  saint, 
because  she  once  carried  with  her  own  hands  a  dish  of  soup  to 
poor,  old,  bedridden  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen,  whose  grandchild 
was  called  for  Alice  at  the  instigation  of  the  mischievous  God- 
frey. 

Both  Julia  and  Alice  went  sometimes  on  errands  of  mercy, 
and  wore  gray  cloaks  with  scarlet  facings  to  the  cape,  and  felt 
themselves  on  a  par  with  the  sisters  of  charity,  and  had  a  lump 
of  camphor  in  their  pockets  to  prevent  contagion,  and  asked  the 
little  ones  if  they  knew  the  Creed,  and  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and 
the  Ten  Commandments,  affecting  great  surprise  if  they  did 
not,  and  telling  them  if  they  did  that  they  ought  to  be  confirmed 
a;  once  and  grow  up  respectable  citizens. 

Very  different  from  these  young  ladies  was  pale-faced,  quiet 
Emma,  who  believed  everybody  to  be  what  he  seemed,  and 
wished  herself  as  good  as  Alice  and  Julia,  who  were  so  devout 


148  THE  LADIES  AT  SCHUYLER   HILL. 

at  church,  and  who  read  a  long  chapter  every  morning  and  a 
short  psalm  every  night.  Emma  did  not  like  to  read  the  Bible, 
and  always  glanced  ahead  to  see  how  long  the  chapter  was, 
and  felt  glad  when  it  was  ended.  And  she  did  not  like  to  visit 
the  poor  because  as  a  general  thing  the  close  air  of  the  rooms 
made  her  sick,  and  she  was  always  unhappy  for  a  whole  day 
with  thinking  about  them  and  fancying  how  she  would  feel  were 
she  also  poor. 

And  yet  of  the  three  girls  I  liked  Emma  best,  for  I  knew  just 
how  true,  and  honest,  and  innocent  she  was,  and  that  though 
she  too  was  proud,  she  tried  to  overcome  her  pride,  because 
she  thought  it  wrong,  and  in  her  heart  had  a  sincere  desire  to 
do  just  what  was  right.  No  one  ever  called  Emma  handsome  ; 
her  features  were  too  sharp  for  that,  but  there  was  something  in 
her  smile  and  the  expression  of  her  soft,  dark  eyes  which  made 
her  very  attractive,  and,  as  I  thought,  prettier  than  Julia  herself. 

Take  them  altogether  the  ladies  at  Schuyler  Hill  were  quite 
distingue  in  manner  and  appearance,  and  we  were  rather  proud 
to  have  them  with  us,  for  their  presence  added  something  of 
importance  to  our  little  town,  and  gave  a  certain  eclat  to  our 
society.  Nor  was  their  governess,  Miss  Helen  Browning,  much 
behind  in  style  and  personal  appearance.  Indeed,  she  prided 
herself  upon  manner  and  good  breeding,  and  knew  every  point 
of  etiquette,  from  sitting  bolt-upright  in  her  chair,  with  just  the 
two  tips  of  her  boots  visible,  to  eating  soup  with  the  side  of  her 
spoon,  and  never  on  any  account  allowing  her  hands  to  touch 
the  table. 

And  now,  last  of  all,  comes  Mrs.  Tiffe,  the  housekeeper,  a 
dignified,  energetic  woman  of  fifty,  who  wore  black  silk  every 
day,  with  pink  ribbons  in  her  cap,  and  who,  after  several  hard- 
fought  battles  with  Miss  Rossiter  for  the  supremacy,  had  come 
off  victorious,  and  reigned  triumphant  at  Schuyler  Hill,  where 
she  feared  no  one  save  the  colonel  himself,  and  liked  no  one 
but  Godfrey.  He  was  her  idol,  and  he  alone  could  unlock  the 
mysterious  closet  under  the  stairs,  and  call  forth  jam,  and  jelly, 
and  even  marmalade,  if  he  liked.  Such  lunches  as  she  gave 
the  ladies  when  they  were  alone,  and  Godfrey  not  there  to  coax, 


THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL.  149 

or  the  colonel  to  insist !  A  chicken  wing  and  back,  with  a 
slice  of  bread  and  butter,  and  possibly  a  baked  apple,  if  there 
chanced  to  be  any  "standing  round"  in  danger  of  spoiling; 
while  her  breakfasts  were  delicate  and  dainty  enough  for  a  fairy, 
or  the  worst  form  which  dyspepsia  ever  assumed.  "  Frugal  re- 
pasts," Godfrey  called  them  ;  but  for  their  frugality  Mrs.  Tiffe 
nade  amends  at  dinner,  which  was  served  with  great  profusion, 
and  all  the  elegance  the  house  could  command.  Nothing  was 
too  nice  for  dinner ;  and  Mrs.  Tiffe,  felt  her  heart  swell  with 
pride  when  she  saw  her  ladies,  handsomely  dressed,  filing  into 
the  spacious  dining-room,  where  the  table  was  bright  with  silver 
and  flowers.  To  her  the  Schuylers  and  Rossiters  represented 
the  world,  and  anybody  outside  that  world,  unless  it  were  Miss 
Creighton,  was  looked  upon  with  disgust,  and  barely  tolerated. 
Miss*  Christine,  it  is  true,  was  not  a  favorite,  but  she  was  a 
Rossiter,  and  Mrs.  Tiffe  charged  all  her  faults  to  the  fact  that 
"  she  was  an  old  maid,  and  couldn't  help  being  queer,"  and  so 
endured  her  quietly  when  her  own  wishes  were  not  opposed. 

And  this  was  the  household  into  which  the  news  of  Col. 
Schuyler's  second  marriage  fell  like  a  bombshell  in  the  enemy's 
camp,  wounding  each  one,  and  wringing  from  each  one  a  cry 
according  to  her  disposition.  But  for  a  description  of  this  I 
must  take  a  fresh  sheet  and  begin  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    NEWS    AT    SCHUYLER     HILL. 

JIT  came  to  them  one  sultry  August  morning,  when  the 
thermometer  was  90  degrees  in  the  shade,  and  the 
air  was  like  a  furnace  even  before  nine  o'clock. 
Breakfast  was  very  late  that  morning,  and  Mrs.  Tiffe  was 
furious.  She  had  committed  the  extravagance  of  broiled  chicken 
and  muffins,  which  of  course  were  spoiled,  and  she  had  herself 
been  up  since  four  o'clock  and  was  in  a  melting  condition,  in 
spite  of  the  thinnest  muslin  she  could  find  and  the  coolest 


150  THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL. 

garments  she  could  wear.  Miss  Rossiter  had  not  slept  well, 
and,  as  was  her  custom  after  a  restless  night,  she  loitered  in  bed, 
and  dawdled  over  her  toilet  and  bath,  and  took  so  much  time 
in  dressing,  that  the  clock  was  striking  nine  when  she  at  last 
entered  the  dining-room,  followed  by  the  three  girls  and  their 
governess,  all  panting  and  inveighing  against  the  weather,  except 
Emma.  She  liked  it.  Naturally  chilly  and  cold,  the  heat 
suited  her,  and  her  face  alone  was  pleasant  and  contented  as 
she  took  her  seat  at  the  table  and  attacked  the  cold  chicken 
and  half-warm,  heavy  muffins,  which  her  dyspeptic  aunt  could 
not  eat. 

"  Bring  me  a  slice  of  dry  toast,"  Miss  Rossiter  said  to  Mar- 
tha, the  waitress,  who,  on  returning  with  the  toast,  brought  two 
letters  for  Miss  Julia,  bearing  foreign  post-marks. 

"  From  father  and  Godfrey,"  Julia  said.  "  Excuse  me,  please, 
while  I  read  them." 

Leaning  back  in  her  chair  she  broke  the  seal  of  her  father's 
first  and  read  a  few  lines,  then  with  a  start  which  nearly  upset 
her  cup  of  chocolate,  she  exclaimed  : 

"Oh,  horrible,  girls!  Aunt  Christine,  listen, — father >: 

"  Martha,  you  can  go,  now,"  she  said  suddenly,  remember- 
ing the  girl,  who  departed  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  news  was 
already  known,  and  where  the  servants  stood  open-mouthed 
around  Perry,  who  was  reading  the  letter  his  master  had  sent 
to  him. 

"  What  is  it,  Julia?"  Miss  Rossiter  asked,  when  Martha  was 
gone,  and  Julia,  whose  eyes  had  run  at  lightning  speed  over 
the  contents  of  the  letter,  replied  : 

"F'ather  is  going  to  be  married  to  a  Miss  Edith  Lyle,  Aunt 
Sinclair's  hired  companion.  You  remember  he  mentioned  her 
once  before  as  living  at  Oakwood.  Hear  what  he  says  of  her  : 
'  She  is  a  lady  of  good  family,  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman, 
the  friend  and  companion  of  my  deceased  sister,  your  late  Aunt 
Sinclair.  She  possesses  many  accomplishments,  and  is  what  I 
consider  a  very  remarkable  personage.'  (How  like  father 
that  sounds!)  'And  I  expect  that  all  due  deference  will  be 
paid  to  her  by  every  member  of  my  household.'  (lie  h-is  ua- 


THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL.  151 

derscored  that.)  'Please  break  the  news  to  your  Aunt  Chris- 
tine, and  tell  Mrs.  Tiffe  to  see  that  all  the  rooms  in  the  south 
wing  are  made  ready  for  Mrs.  Schuyler.  I  have  written  to 
Perry  about  refurnishing  them,  but  Tiffe  must  superintend  it  a 
little ' 

"  Oh,  dreadful,  I  believe  I  am  going  to  faint, — my  hartshorn, 
Emma,  please,"  Miss  Rossiter  gasped. 

The  hartshorn  was  found,  and  two  palm-leaf  fans  were  brought 
into  requisition,  and  then  Miss  RossiFer  spoke  again,  this  time 
hysterically  and  in  tears. 

"  My  poor  sister,  to  be  so  insulted  !  A  hired  companion  ! 
and  she  was  a  Rossiter !  Oh,  1  cannot  bear  it,  my  poor  dis- 
graced nieces,  my  heart  is  breaking  for  you." 

"  But,  Aunt  Christine,  he  says  she  is  a  lady,  the  daughter  of 
a  clergyman,"  Emma  said,  soothingly, — hers  the  only  voice 
raised  in  defence  of  the  intruder, — the  interloper, — the  adven- 
turess,— as  Miss  Rossiter  termed  the  expected  bride. 

Emma's  heart  had  throbbed  painfully  at  the  thought  of  a  new 
mother,  but  it  was  natural  for  her  to  defend  whatever  she  be- 
lieved abused,  and  she  spoke  up  for  the  unknown  Edith,  until 
Julia,  who  had  been  reading  Godfrey's  letter,  uttered  a  cry  of 
bitter  anger  and  scorn,  and  said,  sternly : 

"  Hush,  Em,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about ;  a 
lady,  indeed,  and  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  !  A  woman  of 
forty,  with  a  limp,  and  glass  eye,  and  cracked  voice,  is  a  nice 
mother  to  bring  us  !  " 

"  A  wha-at  ?  "  Miss  Rossiter  gasped,  while  Alice  and  Emma 
both   exclaimed  simultaneously :    "  A  limp   and  a  glass   eye  ! 
What  do  you  mean  ?     Let  me  see  ;  "   and  looking  over  Julia' 
shoulder  Alice  read  aloud  what  Godfrey  had  written. 

Godfrey  had  said,  "  The  sight  of  her  will  take  your  breath 
away,"  and  in  fact  the  very  thought  of  her  did  that,  and  for  full 
a  minute  after  the  letter  was  read  there  was  not  a  sound  heard 
in  the  room  where  the  indignant  and  confounded  ladies  sat, 
each  staring  blankly  at  the  other,  and  neither  able  to  speak  or 
move.  Miss  Rossiter  was  the  first  to  stir,  and  with  a  moaning 
•cry,  "I  cannot  bear  it,"  she  went  into  violent  hysterics,  and 


152  THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL. 

Martha  was  called  in,  and  the  poor  lady  was  taken  to  her  room, 
where  she  tried,  one  after  another,  every  bottle  of  medicine  in 
her  closet,  but  to  no  effect ;  even  the  Crown  Bitters  failed,  and 
she  sank  upon  the  bed,  shivering  with  cold,  and  asking  for 
shawls  and  blankets  on  that  August  day,  with  a  temperature  of 
ninety  degrees  in  the  shade. 

Perhaps  Miss  Rossiter  herself  had  not  been  aware  how  much 
Colonel  Howard  was  to  her,  or  how  hard  it  would  be  to  see 
another  woman  there  in  her  sister's  place.  She  had  too  much 
sense  to  believe  she  would  ever  fill  it,  yet  the  first  smart  had 
been  that  of  disappointment  and  a  sense  of  wrong  to  herself, 
while  the  second  was  a  keen  pang  of  mortification  and  anger, 
that  if  he  must  choose  another  he  had  chosen  that  caricature 
on  womanhood  described  so  graphically  by  Godfrey.  It  is  true 
she  did  not  quite  believe  him  literally.  Neither  did  his  sisters, 
who  sat  in  the  library  with  white  faces  and  tearful  eyes.  Julia 
was  wrathful  and  defiant,  and  was  already  in  a  state  of  fierce 
rebellion  against  the  woman  of  forty  with  the  crack  in  her  voice. 
So  much  she  believed,  but  the  limp  and  glass  eye  were  too 
thoroughly  Godfrey's  to  be  trusted. 

"  Probably  the  woman  is  lame  and  wears  glasses,"  she  said, 
when  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak  at  all,  "and  perhaps  she 
squints,  but  I  have  no  faith  in  the  glass  eye.  Godfrey  made 
that  up.  Father  is  not  the  man  to  marry  such  a  monster,  and 
then  expect  us  to  pay  all  due  deference  to  her.  The  idea  of 
my  deferring  to  such  a  woman.  I  hate  her.  I'll  poison  her, 
the  wretch !  " 

Julia  Schuyler  was  terrible  in  her  wrath,  and  with  that  expres- 
sion in  her  flashing  eyes  and  about  the  white  quivering  lips,  she 
looked  equal  to  anything,  and  Edith  might  well  have  trembled 
could  she  have  seen  the  dark-faced  girl,  who,  with  clenched  fists, 
threatened  to  poison  her.  Julia  would  not  of  course  acknowledge 
that  she  really  had  murder  in  her  heart,  but  she  felt  outraged, 
and  insulted,  and  disgraced,  and  as  if  she  must  do  something  to 
avert  the  horrible  evil  threatening  them  all.  But  what  could 
she  do  ?  To  oppose  her  will  to  her  father's  was  like  trying  to 
move  a  mountain  of  stone  with  her  puny  strength.  The  moun- 


THE  NEIVS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL.  153 

tain  would  not  be  hurt,  and  only  she  would  suffer  from  the  at- 
tempt. 

There  was  no  help,  no  hope,  and  when  her  anger  had  spent 
itself  she  burst  into  tears  and  sobbed  passionately,  just  as  Emma 
had  done  from  the  first,  but  with  this  difference,  she  cried  from 
wrath  and  indignant  mortification,  while  Emma's  tears  were 
more  for  the  dead  mother  whose  place  was  to  be  filled,  and 
whose  death  it  seemed  to  her  now  had  only  been  yesterday. 

The  governess,  who  knew  that  remark  of  any  kind  from  her- 
self would  be  resented  as  impertinent,  wisely  said  nothing,  while 
Alice,  too,  was  silent,  except  as  she  occasionally  said  to  Julia, 
"It  is  too  bad,  and  I  am  sorry  for  you  ;  sorry  for  us  all." 

Looking  upon  Godfrey  as  her  own  especial  property,  Alice 
felt  that  whatever  affected  the  Schuylers  affected  her,  and  she 
was  sorry  accordingly  for  this  thing  about  to  happen,  but  it  did 
not  hurt  her  as  it  did  Julia  and  Emma,  who  must  call  the  strange 
woman  mother,  and  who  wept  on  until  Miss  Rossiter  sent  for 
them  to  come  to  her  room  together  with  Miss  Creighton.  She 
had  taken  some  brandy,  and  felt  better,  though  her  heart  was 
aching  still  with  a  dreary  sense  of  loss,  and  disappointment,  and 
disgrace,  if  half  Godfrey  had  written  was  true,  and  half  was  all 
that  any  stretch  of  her  imagination  would  allow  her  to  bejieve, 
and  when  the  young  girls  entered  the  room  she  said  to  them  : 

"  I  have  sent  for  you  to  talk  over  this  dreadful  thing,  and  to 
say  that  I  do  not  credit  all  Godfrey's  story.  He  is  a  sad  boy 
to  exaggerate,  you  know.  Still,  let  the  woman  be  what  she 
may,  we  do  not  want  her  here  where  we  have  been  so  happy." 

Miss  Rossiter's  voice  faltered  a  little,  but  soon  recovering 
herself,  she  continued  : 

"  No,  we  do  not  want  her  here  ;  and  I  for  one  declare  war, — 
war  to  the  knife  /" 

She  spoke  bitterly  now,  and  her  black  eyes  flashed  with  con- 
temptuous scorn. 

"But  Aunt  Christine,"  Emma  said,  "it  is  father's  house,  and 
he  will  not  let  you  treat  her  badly." 

"  Nor  shall  I,"  Miss  Rossiter  said,  loftily ;  "  I  shall  let  her 
alone  severely,  and  leave  as  soon  as  possible  after  her  arrival 
7* 


154  THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL. 

Nor  shall  I  leave  my  sister's  daughters  with  the  adventuress. 
I've  been  thinking  it  over,  and  have  concluded  to  rent  or  buy  a 
place  in  New  York,  and  set  up  housekeeping  for  myself,  in 
which  case  you  will  go  with  me,  and  leave  your  father  to  enjoy 
life  with  his  low-born  bride." 

"  Father  wrote  she  was  a  lady,  and  Godfrey  says  we  shall  like 
her,"  Emma  quickly  interposed,  feeling  that  for  herself  she  pre- 
ferred staying  with  the  "adventuress"  to  living  with  Aunt 
Christine. 

Julia,  on  the  contrary,  was  caught  with  the  house  in  New 
York.  The  city  was  far  more  to  her  taste  than  the  dull 
country,  and,  with  a  withering  glance  at  her  sister,  she 
said : 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Em,  that  you  cannot  appreciate 
auntie's  offer,  but  speak,  instead,  for  that  woman.  I,  for  one, 
am  greatly  obliged  to  auntie,  and  shall  go  with  her  to  New 
York?" 

"And  I,  too,  if  she  will  have  me.  I'd  rather  live  anywhere 
than  at  Uncle  Calvert's,"  Alice  said;  "and  I  hope  the  house 
will  be  near  the  Park.  Won't  it  be  nice,  though?" 

"  Yes,  I  mean  to  have  it  nice,"  Miss  Rossiter  said,  warming 
into  something  like  enthusiasm  as  she  thought  of  a  home  of  her 
own.  "  I  shall  furnish  it  elegantly,  and  have  a  reception  every 
week,  with  little  recherche  dinner  parties  for  our  circle." 

Julia  began  to  be  interested,  and  hoped  she  should  see  a 
little  society  before  she  was  quite  forty,  while  Alice  resolved  to 
be  married  from  that  house  near  the  Park,  instead  of  "  Uncle 
Calvert's  poky  little  bandbox  down  on  Washington  Square." 

And  while  the  three  ladies  planned  and  talked  of  the  new 
house  in  the  city,  each  was  conscious  of  a  pang  as  she  thought 
of  leaving  the  delightful  place,  where  was  so  much  of  comfort 
and  luxury,  with  no  shadow  of  care  or  trouble.  And  of  the  three, 
Miss  Rossiter  felt  it  the  most  keenly.  Naturally  indolent  and 
fond  of  her  ease,  she  had  enjoyed  her  sister's  house,  and  hated 
much  to  leave  it,  but  the  fiat  had  gone  forth. 

There  was  to  be  a  new  mistress  at  Schuyler  Hill,  whose  name 
was  not  Rossiter,  and  she  must  go.  She  settled  that  point  at 


THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL.  155 

once,  and  then  said  to  the  young  "girls  by  way  of  caution,  for 
pride  in  her  brother-in-law  was  still  strong  within  her  : 

"I  think  it  will  be  better  not  to  mention  Godfrey's  letter, — 
that  is,  not  to  speak  of  the  woman's  personal  appearance, 
which  may  not  be  so  bad  as  we  fear.  Let  her  show  for  herself 
what  she  is.  We  must  tell,  of  course,  of  the  expected  marriage, 
but  we  need  say  nothing  further." 

In  this  reasonable  advice  all  three  of  the  girls  concurred,  and 
yet  through  some  agency  it  was  soon  rumored  all  over  Hamp- 
stead  that  the  new  lady  of  Schuyler  Hill  was  deformed,  and 
homely  and  poor,  and  the  hired  companion  of  the  late  Mrs.  Sin- 
clair, and  that  Miss  Rossiter  had  declared  war  to  the  knife, 
while  Julia  talked  of  poison,  and  Emma  cried- day  and  night  and 
would  not  be  comforted.  Who  told  all  this,  nobody  knew. 
Possibly  it  was  the  governess,  and  possibly  Mrs.  Tiffe,  who 
bristled  all  over  those  days  with  importance  and  secret  exulta- 
tion over  her  routed  and  discomfited  foe,  poor  Miss  Rossiter. 
Mrs.  Tiffe  had  had  her  letter  from  Col.  Schuyler,  and  Perry,  her 
son,  had  his  also,  in  which  were  numerous  instructions  with  regard 
to  the  refurnishing  of  the  rooms  in  the  south  wing.  "  All  the 
rooms,"  the  colonel  had  said,  and  he  was  minute  in  his  directions 
with  regard  to  the  corner  room  with  the  bay-window  overlooking 
the  river  and  the  mountains  beyond.  This  was  to  be  Mrs. 
Schuyler' s  boudoir,  or  private  sitting-room,  and  was  to  be  fitted 
up  in  drab  and  pale  rose  pink,  while  the  sleeping-room,  which 
was  separated  from  it  by  bath-room  and  dressing-closet,  was  to 
be  furnished  with  blue,  and  the  little  room  beyond,  where  the 
colonel  kept  his  books  and  private  papers,  was  to  be  green  and 
oak. 

"  Let  everything  be  new  and  in  the  latest  style,"  the  colonel 
wrote  to  Perry.  "  You  can  get  men  up  from  New  York  who 
will  know  just  what  is  needful,  while  the  ladies  and  your  mother 
will  give  you  the  benefit  of  their  advice  and  good  taste,  so  I 
shall  expect  to  find  everything  perfect  when  I  come." 

To  Mrs.  Tiffe  the  colonel  wrote,  saying  that  from  past  ex- 
perience he  knew  he  coukl  rely  upon  her,  and  hoped  she  would 
give  the  matter  her  own  personal  supervision,  in  which  case  it 


1 56  THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL. 

would  be  nght.  Thus  flattered  and  trusted  and  deferred  to, 
Mrs.  Tiffe  espoused  the  cause  of  the  new  wife,  and  hurrahed  for 
the  coining  change  of  government  at  Schuyler  Hill.  Anything 
was  preferable  to  Miss  Rossiter,  and  Mrs.  Tiffe  cared  little 
whether  Edith  walked  with  two  crutches  or  one,  provided  she 
freed  her  from  the  enemy. 

"  My  son  will  obey  orders  to  the  letter,"  she  said,  crisply, 
when  Julia  asked  what  Perry  meant  to  do.  "  If  the  colonel 
says  the  south  wing  must  be  cleared  and  refurnished,  it  will  be, 
and  Miss  Rossiter  may  as  well  vacate  to-day  as  to-morrow. 
There's  no  time  to  be  lost  in  dawdling." 

Now,  the  corner  room,  with  the  wide  bay-window,  was  the 
room  of  all  others  which  Miss  Rossiter  preferred,  and  she  had 
appropriated  it  to  herself  and  held  possession  of  it  in  spite  of 
Mrs.  Tiffe' s  broad  hints  that  there  were  other  apartments  in  the 
house  besides  the  "very  best  chamber."  But  she  must  give  it 
up  now,  and  with  many  a  sigh  of  regret  she  saw  Kitty  gather  up 
her  bottles  of  medicine,  her  boxes  of  pills,  her  wine  and  her 
brandy,  and  galvanic  battery,  and  bear  them  to  another  closet 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house,  away  from  the  river  and 
mountains,  where  her  only  view  was  the  little  town,  which  she 
detested,  and  the  hill  rising  darkly  behind  it.  It  was  hard,  and 
Miss  Rossiter  felt  very  much  injured  and  aggrieved,  and  cried 
softly  to  herself,  and  thought  very  bitter  things  of  that  woman 
who  had  brought  her  to  this  strait,  and  for  whom  the  house  was 
being  turned  upside  down. 

Mrs.  Tiffe  was  already  at  work  with  her  maids  in  the  south 
wing  taking  up  carpets,  removing  furniture,  washing  windows, 
and  in  the  room  just  vacated  by  Miss  Rossiter  burning  coffee, 
and'  sugar,  and  paper  by  way  of  removing  the  smell  of  drugs 
with  which  the  apartment  was  permeated.  But  do  what  she 
would  the  faint  odor  of  valerian  was  still  perceptible,  making 
the  good  woman  "  sick  as  a  dog,"  as  she  expressed  it,  and  bring- 
ing into  requisition  as  a  last  experiment  burnt  feathers,  which, 
combined  with  the  valerian,  made  the  atmosphere  of  the  place 
unbearable. 

"  Paint  will  do  it  and  nothing  else,"  was  Mrs.  Tiffe's  final 


THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL.  157 

verdict,  as  she  retreated  to  the  open  window  and  leaned  out 
for  a  breath  of  pure  air. 

Not  the  slightest  interest  did  either  of  the  ladies  show  in  the 
changes  being  made,  but  Mrs.  Tiffe  and  her  son  felt  themselves 
equal  to  the  task  until  it  came  to  selecting  carpets,  and  furni- 
ture and  curtains  in  New  York.  Then  Perry  said  some  one 
ought  to  go  with  him  and  not  let  him  take  the  entire  responsi- 
bility. 

But  neither  Miss  Rossiter,  nor  Julia,  nor  Alice,  made  any 
response,  and  the  probability  was  that  he  would  go  alone  until 
the  morning  came,  when  Emma  appeared  at  breakfast  in  her 
walking-dress  and  announced  her  intention  to  accompany 
Perry. 

"  Somebody  ought  to  go  for  father's  sake,"  she  said;  "and 
if  no  one  else  will,  I  must.  I  shall  stop  at  Uncle  Calvert's  and 
get  auntie  to  help  me." 

To  this  there  was  no  open  opposition.  Miss  Rossiter  had 
the  toothache  and  could  not  talk,  while  Julia  merely  raised  her 
eyebrows  in  token  of  her  surprise  ;  and  Alice  said  : 

"  You  are  certainly  very  kind,  Em,  and  forgiving,  to  be  so 
much  interested  for  that  woman." 

"  It  isn't  for  that  woman ;  it's  for  father,  and  because  1 
know  he  wishes  it,"  Emma  replied,  as  she  put  on  her  hat  and 
shawl  and  started  with  Perry  for  New  York. 

She  was  gone  three  days,  and  at  the'  end  of  that  time  four 
men  appeared  at  Schuyler  Hill  and  commenced  the  work  of 
measuring,  repainting  and  frescoing  the  rooms  intended  for  the 
bride.  Then  in  due  time  came  the  carpets,  and  the  lambre- 
quins, and  the  lace  curtains,  and  the  furniture,  and  more  men  to 
see  that  everything  fitted  and  was  as  it  should  be. 

"  Handsome  enough  for  the  queen  herself,"  Mrs.  Tiffe  said, 
when  all  was  done,  and  she  walked  complacently  through  the 
suite  of  rooms,  sniffing  occasionally  as  she  passed  the  open 
closet,  to  see  if  there  lingered  yet  the  faintest  approach  to  va- 
lerian or  drug  of  any  kind. 

There  did  not.  Paint  and  varnish  had  killed  all  that,  and  the 
air  of  the  rooms  was  pure  and  sweet  as  the  rooms  themselves 


158  THE  NEWS  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL. 

were  beautiful  and  attractive.  I  used  those  days  to  be  occa- 
sionally at  the  great  house,  and,  as  I  never  presumed  upon  my 
acquaintance  with  the  ladies,  or  tried  to  force  myself  upon 
their  notice,  they  treated  me  with  a  good  deal  of  kindness,  and 
seemed  to  like  my  society.  So  when,  one  Saturday  morning 
after  the  repairs  were  finished,  I  met  Miss  Julia  in  the  village, 
and  she  said,  in  her  usual  half-cordial,  half-indifferent  tone, 
"  What  an  age  it  is  since  you  were  to  see  us.  Suppose  you 
come  round  this  afternoon,  and  have  a  game  of  croquet,  and 
stay  to  dinner,"  I  accepted  the  invitation,  and  at  about  4  P.M. 
rang  the  bell  at  Schuyler  Hill. 

I  did  not  suppose  I  was  very  early,  especially  as  we  were  iw 
play  croquet ;  but  the  ladies,  who  always  slept  after  lunch,  were 
not  yet  dressed,  and  so  I  went  with  Mrs.  Tiffe  to  the  kitchen,  to 
see  some  jelly  she  had  been  making,  and  which  had  "  come  beau- 
tifully." As  I  was  about  returning  to  the  parlor  she  said  to  me  : 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  them  rooms  ?  " 

I  knew  what  she  meant,  and  answered  that  I  did. 

Taking  me  first  into  the  green  room,  where  the  oak  leaves  in 
the  rich  velvet  carpet  looked  as  if  you  might  pick  them  up,  Mrs. 
Tiffe  opened  the  doors  through,  and  asked  what  I  thought  of 
the  effect.  It  was  beautiful  beyond  anything  I  had  dreamed. 
Especially  was  I  delighted  ,with  the  parlor,  where  the  carpet 
was  of  that  soft  chin6  pattern  so  tasteful  and  exquisite ;  and  the 
furniture  was  delicate  drab,  with  trimmings  of  pale  rose  pink. 
There  were  rare  pictures  on  the  wall,  and  curtains  of  finely- 
wnought  lace  before  the  windows,  with  lambrequins  of  rose  pink 
satin  to  match  the  furniture,  while  cushions,  and  easy-chairs,  and 
ottomans,  and  inlaid  tables,  which  almost  told  their  price  them- 
selves, were  scattered  about  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  the  room 
an  air  of  cosey,  home-like  comfort  as  well  as  elegance. 

How  lovely  it  all  was,  and  how  like  a  dream  it  seemed  to  be 
looking  at  it,  and  knowing  that  it  was  real  and  not  a  mere  illu- 
sion !  Then,  as  I  remembered  what  I  had  heard  of  the  bride's 
deformity  and  plainness,  I  thought  it  such  a  pity  that  the  occu- 
pant of  these  rooms  should  not  be  lovely  like  them,  and  a  fit- 
ting ornament  for  so  lunch  grandeur. 


MRS.    ROGERS  AXD    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD.      159 

Lady  Emily,  with  her  pale,  sallow  face  and  expressionless 
eyes,  would  have  looked  better  there,  I  said,  or  even  Miss 
Rossiter  herself,  who  when  dressed  and  feeling  well  was  still 
very  attractive,  and  when  I  went  down  stairs  and  found  her 
sitting  on  the  veranda,  in  her  white  cambric  dress,  with  the 
scarlet  shawl  she  wore  so  much  wrapped  around  her,  her  glossy 
black  hair  becomingly  arranged,  with  a  single  white  flower 
among  the  heavy  braids,  I  thought  the  colonel  would  have  done 
far  better  to  have  taken  her  than  the  bride  he  had  chosen. 

We  had  a  very  quiet,  stupid,  six-hand  game  of  croquet,  and 
the  dinner  was  quieter,  stupider  still,  for  all  the  ladies  seemed 
preoccupied  and  disinclined  to  talk.  Not  a  word  was  said  of 
the  marriage  by  any  one  until  I  was  leaving,  when  Emma  came 
up  to  me,  and  whispered  softly : 
.  "  They  are  in  New  York.  We  had  a  telegram  this  afternoon." 

She  did  not  say  who  they  were,  but  I  pressed  her  h»nd  in 
token  of  my  sympathy,  for  I  knew  that  they  had  reference  to 
the  new  mistress  of  Schuyler  Hill. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

MRS.   ROGERS    AND    GERTIE    AT    HAMPSTEAD. 

JHE  voyage,  which,  owing  to  adverse  winds,  had  been 
unusually  long,  was  over,  and  the  names  of  "  Col. 
Schuyler,  lady  and  maid"  were  registered  at  the  hotel, 
where  they  were  to  stop  for  a  week  or  more  before  going  to 
their  home  in  Hampstead.  Macpherson  and  Godfrey  were 
there  also,  the  latter  showing  the  city  to  his  friend,  who  cared 
only  for  the  studios  and  galleries  of  paintings.  After  her  hus- 
band's reproof  Edith  had  made  no  attempt  to  see  Gertie  West- 
brooke,  but  she  had  inquired  for  her  every  day  and  sent  many 
delicacies  to  her,  and  once,  in  the  distance,  she  had  seen  her 
shawl  wrapped  around  a  little  figure  which  was  leaning  over 
the  railing,  with  masses  of  bright  hair,  falling  beneath  the  scarlet 


160    MRS.    ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD. 

hood,  and  to  herself  she  said :  "  That  must  be  Gertie  West- 
brooke." 

But  further  than  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  child,  until  she 
heard  Godfrey  talking  to  his  father  about  the  cottage  Mrs. 
Rogers  was  to  have. 

"  Yes,  certainly,  I'll  ask  Mrs.  Schuyler,"  Colonel  Schuyler 
said  to  some  suggestion  of  Godfrey,  and  then  added,  with  a 
laugh  :  "  It  seems,  Edith,  that  this  child  in  whom  you  were  so 
much  interested  is  to  be  my  tenant,  or  rather  Godfrey's,  as  the 
cottage  is  his.  He,  too,  has  taken  a  most  unaccountable  fancy 
to  the  girl,  and  as  I  have  ordered  your  suite  of  rooms  to  be 
wholly  refurnished,  Godfrey  has  suggested  that  we  let  this  Mrs. 
Rogers  have  as  much  of  the  old  furniture  as  will  be  suitable  for 
that  cottage.  She  has  everything  to  buy,  of  course,  and  not 
much  means,  I  dare  say." 

This  was  just  like  Colonel  Schuyler.  He  was  very  generous 
with  his  pride,  and  he  really  wished  to  make  some  amends  for 
his  conduct  with  regard  to  Gertie  and  the  shawl.  Ever  since 
that  affair  he  had  felt  that  he  might  have  acted  hastily,  while 
Edith's  meek  acquiescence  with  his  wishes  touched  him  in  a 
tender  point,  and  now,  when  the  Rogers  people  came  into  notice 
again,  he  seized  the  opportunity  to  do  them  a  favor  if  possible. 

"They  can  think  they  are  renting  the  furniture  with  the 
house,"  he  said  ;  and  as  Edjth  signified  her  approval  without  in 
the  least  suspecting  what  cottage  it  was  which  was  to  receive 
the  furniture  from  Schuyler  Hill,  the  matter  was  decided,  and 
Mrs.  Rogers  was  told  that  she  would  find  the  house  partly  fur- 
nished, a  fact  which  gave  her  much  satisfaction. 

Since  the  failure  of  the  bank,  money  had  been  scarce  with 
her,  and  as  she  could  not  afford  to  remain  long  in  New  York, 
even  at  a  cheap  boarding-house,  she  started  for  Hampstead  the 
third  day  after  landing.  Godfrey's  telegram  had  been  received 
by  Perry,  the  agent,  but  there  was  no  time  for  repairs,  nor  were 
they  needed,  as  the  house  had  been  well  kept  up  and  was  clean 
as  soap  and  water  and  the  hands  of  the  late  occupant  could 
make  it.  At  the  time  of  refurnishing  Edith's  rooms  at  Schuyler 
Hill  the  old  furniture  had  been  stored  awav,  some  in  the  ser- 


MRS.    ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD.      161 

vants'  rooms,  some  in  the  attic,  and  some  in  the  barn,  but  it 
was  brought  together  according  to  the  colonel's  orders,  and  de- 
posited in  the  cottage,  where  it  lay  waiting  the  arrival  of  the 
new  tenants,  concerning  whom  there  was  much  speculation  in 
our  little  town. 

I  was  on  my  way  from  school, — for  I  was  still  the  village 
schoolmistress, — and,  seeing  the  door  open  and  people  moving 
about  inside,  I  passed  through  the  gate,  and  entered  the  rooms, 
where  I  had  last  seen  Heloise  Fordham.  People  called  it 
"  Vine  Cottage,"  it  was  so  entirely  covered  with  vines  and 
creepers,  and  surrounded  with  flowering  shrubs.  And  a  very 
pretty  place  it  was,  too  ;  for,  since  it  had  been  Godfrey's,  he 
had  taken  great  pains  to  keep  it  up,  and  beautify  the  yard  and 
garden,  both  of  which  were  fashioned  a  little  after  the  grounds 
at  Schuyler  Hill. 

Such  a  place  could  not  go  begging  for  tenants,  but  for  some 
reason  it  had  been  vacant  for  five  or  six  weeks,  when  Godfrey's 
telegram  was  received,  bidding  Perry  get  it  in  readiness  for  Mrs. 
Rogers.  As  we  have  seen,  Perry  obeyed  orders,  and,  in  spite 
of  the  wry  faces  of  the  young  ladies  and  Miss  Christine's  remon- 
strance, he  collected  the  articles  named  in  Colonel  Schuyler's 
dispatch,  and  carried  them  to  the  cottage,  where  I  found  them 
scattered  about  promiscuously,  a  half-worn  velvet  carpet  here,  a 
marble  table  and  stand  there,  and  in  another  place  a  beautiful 
rosewood  bedstead,  bearing  the  marks  of  the  boy  Godfrey's 
jack-knife,  and  a  handsome  bureau,  both  too  tall  to  stand  in 
any  room  except  the  parlor,  where  they  were  not  wanted. 

"  What  is  all  this?"  I  asked,  as  I  stepped  over  oil-cloth,  and 
hearth-rug,  and  curtains.  "Who  is  going  to  live  here  ?" 

"A  Mrs.  Rogers,  cousin  to  the  new  madame's  waiting-maid," 
Perry  replied,  with  a  certain  intonation  in  his  voice,  which 
showed  me  that  he  had  taken  his  cue  from  the  house  on  the 
Hill,  and  was  not  inclined  to  regard  with  favor  the  cousin  of 
"  madame's  waiting-maid." 

"When  is  Mrs.  Rogers  expected?"  I  asked,  and  he  re- 
plied : 

"  She   may  come    any  time,  but   the   colonel   will   not   be 


162     MRS.    ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD. 

here  for  two  weeks  or  more.  There's  the  old  Harry  to  pay  up 
there,"  and  he  nodded  toward  the  house  on  the  Hill.  "  I  tell 
you,  Miss  Rossiter  and  Miss  Schuyler  is  ridin'  their  highest 
horses." 

It  was  not  for  me  to  question  him,  and  so  I  made  him  no 
reply,  but  improved  the  opportunity  of  going  through  the  house 
where  my  old  friend,  Heloise  Fordham,  used  to  live,  and  where 
I  had  bidden  her  good-by  with  promises  to  care  for  that  grave 
on  the  hillside.  And  I  had  cared  for  it  regularly  at  first,  and 
then  as  years  went  by  and  she  neither  came  to  see  my  work 
nor  sent  me  any  word,  1  gradually  began  to  grow  a  little  lax  in 
my  labors,  and  now  it  was  months  since  I  had  thought  of  it. 
But  I  remembered  it  that  morning  when  I  stood  in  Heloise' s 
old  room,  where  I  had  seen  her  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes  and 
the  tremor  in  her  voice  as  she  talked  to  me  of  Abelard,  who 
"  was  not  her  beau,"  and  yet  very  dear  to  her.  There  by  the 
window  she  had  stood  and  cut  the  long  curl  of  hair  and  given 
me  the  vase  for  Abelard's  grave. 

"And  where  is  the  young  girl?"  I  asked  myself,  "and  why 
has  she  never  written  me  a  line  in  all  these  years  ?  " 

Then  as  I  thought  of  the  neglected  grave,  I  said,  aloud  : 

"  I'll  go  there  to-morrow  and  see  what  I  can  do.  It  must  be 
sadly  overgrown  by  this  time." 

But  it  rained  the  next  day  and  the  next,  and  so  I  did  not  go, 
but  came  each  day  by  the  cottage,  where  at  last  I  saw  the  new 
tenants,  Mrs.  Rogers  and  little  Gertie  Westbrooke. 

The  child  was  in  the  garden  close  by  the  fence,  and  glanced 
up  at  me  with  a  look  which  made  me  stop  instantly  to  ga/.c  at 
her,  while  the  smile  which  broke  over  her  face  and  shone  in  her 
blue  eyes  took  me  straight  through  the  gate  to  her  side,  and  be- 
fore I  knew  at  all  what  I  was  doing  or  why  I  was  doing  it,  I 
was  talking  to  her  and  seeming  to  myself  like  one  who  walks  in 
a  dream  and  sees  there  things  which  lie  has  known  and  seen  be- 
fore. 

Surely  that  smile,  which  came  and  went  so  frequently,  and 
that  voice  so  clear,  and  sweet,  and  ringing,  were  familiar  to  me, 
and  I  said  to  the  child  : 


MRS.    ROGERS  AND    GERTIE   AT  HAMPSTEAD.     163 

"  Have  you  been  here  before  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am ;  I  was  born  in  London.  I  never  was  in  Airer- 
ica  until  now,  and  yet  it's  funny  that  this  place  seems  like  home, 
and  my  room  is  just  whit  I  thought  it  would  be.  Won't  you 
walk  in,  please,  and  see  auntie  ?"  she  said,  and  I  followed  her 
into  the  cottage,  where  she  presented  me  to  the  woman  there 
with  all  the  air  and  grace  of  one  born  to  the  purple. 

"Auntie,  Mrs.  Rogers  ;  this  lady  is, — I  don't  believe  I  know 
your  name." 

And  she  turned  inquiringly  to  me. 

I  told  her  who  I  was,  and  then  inspected  Mrs.  Rogers  curi- 
ously, and  wondered  to  find  her  so  different  from  Gertie.  She 
spoke  very  well  and  appeared  well,  but  showed  at  once  the 
class  to  which  she  belonged  ;  nor  did  she  make  pretensions  to 
anything  else  than  she  really  was, — a  plain,  sensible  woman,  who 
had  come  to  America  to  better  herself  and  be  near  Norah, 
her  cousin. 

She  wanted  work,  she  said,  and  asked  what  the  probabilities 
were  of  her  obtaining  employment  in  Hampstead,  either  as 
plain  sewer  or  dressmaker,  or  both.  Of  course,  I  heard  about 
the  lost  money  in  the  bank,  and  received  the  impression  that 
she  had  seen  better  days.  Everybody  who  comes  from  the  old 
country  has,  but  that  was  natural,  and  I  liked  her  on  the  whole, 
and  thought  her  a  woman  of  great  tact  and  observation,  and 
promised  her  my  plain  sewing  and  my  influence  if  she  pleased 
me. 

She  was  very  anxious  to  send  Gertie  to  school  at  once,  she 
said,  and  the  next  day  she  sat  in  my  schoolroom  in  her  dainty 
dress  of  blue,  with  her  white-ruffled  apron,  and  her  auburn  haii 
rippling  all  over  her  finely-shaped,  intellectual  head.  I  walked 
home  with  her  that  night,  and  found  Mrs.  Rogers  in  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  about  the  bedstead  and  the  bureau,  which 
seemed  so  out  of  place  in  the  cottage. 

"  Where  did  they  come  from  ?  Did  the  other  tenants  use 
them  ?  "  she  asked,  and  as  I  did  not  see  fit  to  enlighten  her, 
she  finally  determined  to  store  them  away  in  the  woodshed  un- 
til Mr.  Godfrey  came.  4;  I  am  able  to  furnish  a  few  rooms  de- 


1 64     MAS.  ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD. 

ct  ntly  well  myself,"  she  said  ;  and  three  days  after,  when  I 
called  on  my  way  from  school,  Gertie  took  me  to  her  room 
and  asked  me  how  I  liked  it. 

It  was  the  same  Heloise  Fordham  used  to  occupy,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  she  was  there  again  at  my  side,  as  I  stood 
looking  at  the  pretty  ingrain  carpet  and  the  single  bed,  with 
sits  snow-white  draperies,  the  low  chair  near  the  window,  and 
fthe  table  for  Gertie's  work,  and  the  swinging-shelf  for  her 
books. 

"  It  is  a  pretty  room,"  I  said,  "  and  it  looks  as  it  did  when 
Heloise  was  here." 

"Who?"  Gertie  asked,  sweeping  her  hair  back  from  her 
forehead,  just  as  I  had  seen  Heloise  do  so  many  times.  "Who 
did  you  say  used  to  be  here  ?" 

"  Heloise  Fordham,  a  young  girl  about  my  age,  or  a  little 
older,  whose  mother  occupied  this  cottage  twelve  or  thirteen 
years  ago,"  I  replied;  and  Gertie  rejoined  : 

"  Why,  that  is  my  name,  too  !  " 

"Is  it?"  I  asked,  and  she  rejoined  : 

"Yes,  Gertrude  Heloise.  I  write  it  Gertrude  H.  for  short. 
Don't  you  know  ?" 

I  did  not  know,  and  I  had  no  suspicion  of  that  which,  had  I 
known  it  then,  would  have  taken  my  senses  away,  I  verily 
believe. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  friend,"  she  said.  "  Was  she  pretty,  and 
good,  and  happy  ?  I  like  to  know  who  has  occupied  my  room 
before  me.  At  Stonewark,  where  we  were  a  few  weeks  last 
summer,  they  said  my  room  was  haunted  by  a  girl  who  killed 
herself  for  love.  Auntie  did  hot  wish  me  to  sleep  there.  She's 
a  bit  superstitious,  but  I  was  not  afraid.  I  liked  it,  and  tried 
to  keep  awake  nights  to  see  the  ghost  which  threw  itself  out  of 
the  window  just  at  midnight,  but  I  always  went  to  sleep  before 
it  came.  Where  is  Heloise,  now?" 

I  did  not  know,  but,  questioned  by  the  eager  little  girl,  I  told 
a  part  of  the  story,  and  then,  as  she  grew  interested  and  begged 
for  "  the  whole,  the  very  whole,"  I  told  it  her,  thinking  there 
was  no  harm  in  telling,  as  no  one  could  be  wronged.  Heloise 


MRS.   ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD.      165 

was  either  married  or  dead,  the  latter  probably,  or  she  would 
have  written  to  me,  and  so  it  was  no  matter  if  I  did  tell  her 
story  and  Abelard's  to  the  child  who  listened  so  intently,  her 
eyes  filling  with  tears,  which  rolled  down  her  cheeks  when  I 
spoke  of  the  dead  man  lying  on  the  grass,  his  face  all  wet  with 
blood  and  a  withered  white  rose  pressed  inside  his  flannel  shirt. 
I  suppose  she  cried  for  him,  and  to  a  certain  extent  I  dare  say 
she  did,  though  her  first  words  were  :  "  Poor  fellow,  I'm  so  glad 
he  didn't  let  Godfrey  be  killed." 

This  was  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned  Godfrey  to  me, 
and  as  I  had  the  impression  that  she  did  not  know  him,  I  was 
going  to  ask  her  about  it  when  she  said,  eagerly : 

"And  he  was  the  young  girl's  lover,  and  she  only  fifteen; 
that's  funny.  I'm  twelve,  and  I  should  not  think  of  having  a 
beau  ;  but  go  on  and  tell  me  more,  and  what  they  did  with  him, 
and  what  she  did,  and  all  of  them." 

I  told  her  what  they  did,  and  how  for  a  day  and  a  night  the 
body  lay  in  the  parlor  below,  and  where  they  buried  it,  and 
about  the  monument  and  my  promise  to  keep  the  grave  clean 
and  nice. 

"  And  have  you  done  it  ?"  Gertie  asked,  her  cheeks  like  roses 
and  her  eyes  as  bright  as  stars. 

I  confessed  to  recent  neglect,  and  said  I  had  not  been  there 
once  during  the  summer. 

"Then  it's  awful  by  this  time,"  Gertie  said.  "Let's  go  and 
fix  it  to-morrow,  you  and  I,  will  you?" 

I  promised  that  I  would,  and  then,  as  it  was  growing  dark,  I 
bade  her  good-night,  she  saying  to  me  in  a  whisper : 

"  I'll  not  tell  auntie  about  that  girl  who  used  to  have  my  room, 
because  if  I  did  I'd  have  to  tell  about  the  body  which  lay  in' 
the  parlor,  and  she  would  surely  see  his  ghost.  She's  afraid  of 
'em,  you  know.  I  guess  that  class  always  are." 

She  spoke  of  her  auntie's  belonging  to  a  class  different  from 
herself  as  naturally  as  possible,  and  still  with  no  shadow  of  con- 
tempt or  disrespect  in  her  voice.  Mrs.  Rogers  had  always 
taught  her  that  though  she  must  expect  nothing  from  others  on 
account  of  it,  she  was  superior  to  people  like  herself  and  Norah, 


166     MRS.  ROGEKS  AND    GERTIE   AT  11AMPSTEAD. 

and  Gertie  accepted  it  as  a  fact,  not  knowing  exactly  whether 
it  was  the  forty  pounds  a  year  or  the  big  house  where  she  used 
to  live,  or  the  dead  mother,  or  the  father  who  would  not  own 
her,  or  the  grandmother  she  had  never  seen,  which  gave  her  the 
precedence. 

The  next  day,  true  to  my  promise,  I  took  Gertie  to  the  Schuy- 
ler  Cemetery  and  showed  her  Abelard's  grave. 

"James  A.  Lyle,  born  in  Alnwick,  England,  18 — .  Died 
June  — ,  1 8 — ,  aged  23  years.  Honor  to  the  dead  who  died  to 
save  another's  life,"  she  read  aloud,  kneeling  on  the  grass  before 
the  monument  which  marked  his  resting-place. 

"  Oh,  how  nice  that  is.  '  Honor  to  the  dead  who  died  to 
save  another's  life,'  and  that  other  was  Mr.  Godfrey,"  she  said. 
"  And  Colonel  Schuyler  put  it  here.  I  like  him  now  bettei 
than  I  did.  I  thought  he  was  proud  and  cold,  but  there  must 
be  good  in  him.  Why,  it's  a  splendid  stone,  and  must  have  cost 
as  much  as, — as  much  as  forty  pounds." 

Her  income  was  her  maximum  for  an  unheard-of  sum,  and 
she  stood  gazing  admiringly  at  the  stone,  while  her  busy  tongue 
went  on. 

"  And  this  is  a  pretty  yard,  with  all  those  old  Schuylers  buried 
here.  I  mean,  old  really,  you  know.  I  don't  say  it  for  bad 
nicknames.  They  were  all  old.  '  Emily,  beloved  wife  of  Col- 
onel Howard  Schuyler,  aged  36,'  is  the  youngest  of  them  all, 
and  she  was  awful  old.  That  must  be  Colonel  Schuyler's  first 
wife,  Mr.  Godfrey's  mother.  Was  she  as  pretty,  I  wonder,  as 
the  new  lady  is  ?  No,  you  have  not  kept  the  grave  up  nice  ; 
that  girl  would  feel  badly  if  she  saw  it.  Let's  go  straight  to 
work  and  pull  up  the  nasty  weeds  first ;  and  look,  here's  a  clump 
of  lovely  forget-me-nots  down  in  the  grass,  and  sweet  English 
violets." 

She  talked  so  fast  and  went  so  rapidly  from  one  thing  to 
another  that  I  had  no  chance  to  say  a  word,  but  stood  watching 
her  silently  as  she  worked  with  a  will,  pulling  up  the  weeds 
and  digging  about  the  flowers  which  had  been  making  a  faint 
struggle  for  Irfe  in  the  grass  which  impeded  their  growth. 
Whether  she  was  working  for  the  sjke  of  the  young  </\rl  He- 


MRS.    ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD.      167 

loise.  or  because  it  was  Godfrey's  life  which  had  been  saved  by 
the  necessity  for  that  grave,  I  could  not  tell.  She  talked  of 
both,  and  when  her  task  was  done,  and  flushed  and  heated  with 
exercise,  she  sat  down  to  rest,  she  said  : 

"  There,  Miss  Heloise  Fordham  will  feel  better  now,  I  hope, 
and  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  Mr.  Godfrey  liked  me  to  be  kind  to  the 
(man  who  saved  his  life.  Was  she  very  pretty,  Miss  Armstrong  ?  " 

I  knew  she  meant  Heloise,  although  her  last  remark  had  been 
of  Godfrey,  and  I  replied  : 

"  Yes,  very  pretty.  Do  you  know  you  look  a  little  like  her, 
only  your  hair  is  auburn,  and  hers  was  golden  brown,  while 
your  eyes  are  blue  and  hers  were  a  brownish  gray." 

"  Do  I  ?  Am  I  like  her  ?  Am  I  pretty  ?  Mr.  Godfrey  said  I 
was,"  she  exclaimed,  her  face  lighting  up  with  a  glow  which  made 
her,  as  I  thought,  the  most  beautiful  creature  I  had  ever  seen. 

"You  have  spoken  of  Mr.  Godfrey  several  times,"  I  said. 
"  Where  did  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  on  the  ship  and  in  the  cab,  and  in  the  church  when 
his  new  mother  was  married,  and  everywhere,"  she  replied  ; 
and  then,  by  dint  of  a  few  questions  adroitly  put,  I  heard  nearly 
all  she  had  to  tell  of  Godfrey,  who  had  stared  at  her  in  the 
cab,  and  kissed  her  flowers  in  church,  and  herself  on  shipboard. 

"But  he'll  never  do  that  again,"  she  said.  "I  told  him  it 
wasn't  proper,  and  he  said  he  wouldn't,  until — until — "  her  face 
grew  crimson  as  she  continued, — "  until  .1  could  say  I  thought 
him  a  perfect  gentleman,  with  no  slang  or  nonsense,  and  then 
he  is  to  kiss  me  again,  but  that  will  never  be,  I  reckon." 

She  stuck  up  the  toe  of  her  little  foot  and  looked  demurely  at 
it  while  she  settled  the  kissing  affair  with  so  much  gravity,  and 
I, — well,  my  thoughts  did  leap  into  the  future  and  then  leaped 
back  again  when  I  remembered  Alice  Creighton  and  the  proud 
girls  at  Schuyler  Hill.  As  if  divining  something  of  my  thoughts, 
Gertie  asked,. abruptly :  "  Do  you  know  Mr.  Godfrey's  sisters? 
He  told  me -he  had  two." 

"  Yes,  I  know  them ;  they  were  my  pupils  last  year,  when 
their  governess  left  suddenly,"  I  said  ;  and  she  continued  : 

"Are  they  pretty,  and  shall  I  ever  see  them?" 


l68     MRS.  ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD. 

I  dare  say  she  meant  to  ask  if  they  would  notice  her,  and  as 
I  knew  they  would  not  I  gave  her  question  another  meaning, 
and  replied  : 

"  They  are  almost  always  at  church,  and  the  Schuyler  pew 
is  the  large  square  one  in  front.  You  will  be  sure  to  see  them 
there." 

"Yes,  I  am  going  next  Sunday,  but  we  must  sit  near  the 
door,  I  suppose.  Still,  I  shall  see  them  come  in,  for  I  mean 
to  be  early,  and  I  do  hope  Mr.  Godfrey  will  be  here  by  that 
time  with  the  beautiful  lady  Edith. 

Here  was  an  opportunity  I  could  not  let  slip,  my  woman's 
curiosity  was  so  strong,  and  so  I  said  : 

"Is  Mrs.  Schuyler  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  guess  she  is ;  the  beautimllest  woman  I  ever  saw. 
Why,  she  looked  like  a  queen  the  morning  she  was  married, 
and  more  like  his  daughter  than  his  wife." 

"  Have  you  seen  her  often  ?  Were  you  near  her  in  church  ?  " 
I  asked  in  some  surprise,  unable  to  reconcile  her  statement  of 
the  new  Mrs.  Schuyler's  beauty,  with  a  rumor  which  had  reached 
me  in  a  roundabout  way  concerning  her  age  and  personal  ap- 
pearance. 

"Yes,  I  was  very  near  her  in  church  and  threw  her  some 
flowers,  and  I  saw  her  many  times  at  Oakwood,  in  the  grounds 
where  she  walked  in  her  pretty  white  dresses.  I  did  not  speak 
to  her,  you  know.  I  was  some  ways  off,  but  I  could  see  how 
handsome  she  was,  and  everybody  said  so,  too." 

Gertie's  reply  puzzled  me,  for  I  knew  that  the  Schuyler  Hill 
ladies  were  expecting  something  dreadful  in  the  bride  and  were 
preparing  themselves  accordingly,  while  Gertie's  story  seemed 
to  contradict  the  entire  thing.  But  all  1  had  to  do  was  to  wait 
and  see  for  myself,  so  I  asked  no  more  questions,  and  as  the 
afternoon  was  drawing  to  a  close,  we  left  the  cemetery  and  took 
a  path  homeward,  which  led  near  to  the  great  hoi^se  on  the  hill. 
The  ladies  were  playing  croquet  on  the  lawn,  and  Gertie  pulled 
my  dress  and  whispered  : 

"See,  there  they  are,  four  ladies;  which  are  the  sisters,  and 
who  are  the  others  ?  " 


MRS.  ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD.      169 

I  pointed  out  Julia  and  Emma  Schuyler,  and  told  her  the 
lady  in  the  black  dress  and  scarlet  shawl  was  Miss  Rossiter, 
Godfrey's  aunt,  and  that  the  light-haired  girl,  with  her  hair  put 
up  so  high,  was  Miss  Alice  Creighton  from  New  York,  who 
spent  a  great  deal  of  time  at  Schuyler  Hill,  as  the  colonel  was 
her  guardian. 

"  Oh,  how  I  like  to  play  croquet !  Why,  if  I  can  only  get  a 
ball,  I  can  go  clear  round  the  ground  the  first  time.  Do  you 
think  they  would  ask  us  to  join  them  if  we  went  nearer?"  she 
said ;  and  I  replied  that  I  hardly  thought  they  would  care  to 
give  up  that  game  for  the  sake  of  taking  us  in,  while  to  myself 
I  wondered  at  her  temerity  in  proposing  such  a  thing. 

I  did  not  know  her  then  as  well  as  I  did  afterward,  for 
though  she  could  tell  Godfrey  Schuyler  that  he  must  not  talk 
to  her  because  she  was  poor,  in  her  heart  she  was  a  born  aris- 
tocrat, and  felt  no  distinction  except  the  accident  of  wealth 
between  herself  and  people  like  the  Schuylers.  She  never  for- 
got that  her  mother  was  a  lady,  and  though  she  had  but  forty 
pounds  a  year  and  her  auntie  was  a  seamstress,  she  felt  no  in- 
feriority to  any  one,  and  expected  kindness  and  attention  from 
all.  It  was  a  little  singular  that  of  the  four  ladies  in  the  lawn 
she  should  have  singled  out  Alice  Creighton  as  the  subject  for 
remark,  and  not  very  complimentary  remarks  either. 

"  Why  does  she  wear  her  hair  so  high  ?  "  she  asked,  and  when 
I  explained  that  it  was  the  fashion,  she  answered :  "  But  it  is 
very  ugly,  and  makes  her  look  so  queer.  Will  Mr.  Godfrey 
like  that  ?  He  said  mine  was  pretty  in  my  neck  ; "  and  taking 
off  her  white  cape  sun-bonnet  she  let  her  bright,  wavy  hair  fall 
in  masses  around  her  face  and  down  her  back. 

"  You  are  a  little  girl,"  I  said,  "and  Miss  Creighton  is  seven- 
teen, and  engaged,  I  guess." 

"  Engaged !"  she  repeated.  "That's  funny,  and  she  so 
young.  Is  it  Mr.  Godfrey  ?  " 

I  was  stooping  to  button  my  boot,  and  did  not  answer  her, 
while  she  forgot  to  put  the  question  again,  and  clutching  my 
arm,  said  in  a  whisper  : 

"  Look,  she  is  coming  here  ;  this  way  ;  right  toward  us." 
8 


1 70    MRS.  ROGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD. 

"  Good-evening,  Miss  Armstrong,"  Alice  said.  "  I  saw  you 
standing  here,  and  got  our  governess  to  take  my  place,  while  I 
came  to  ask  if  you  know  of  any  one  who  can  do  fluting  nicely, 
and  plain  sewing  as  well.  Adams  is  sick  just  when  I  need  her 
most,  and  I  thought  you  might  know  of  some  one." 

"  I  do, — I  know, — auntie  flutes  and  sews  splendidly,"  Gertie's 
voice  rang  out  clear  and  silvery  as  a  bell,  while  Alice  stared  at 
her  superciliously  at  first ;  then  curiously ;  and  turned  to  me 
with  a  questioning  look  in  her  haughty  eyes. 

1  knew  Miss  Creighton  would  never  forgive  me  if  I  intro- 
duced her  formally  to  the  protegee  of  one  who  did  fluting  and 
plain  sewing,  so  I  merely  said : 

"  This  is  Gertie  Westbrooke,  my  pupil,  whose  auntie  lives  at 
Vine  Cottage,  and  will  I  dare  say  be  glad  of  your  work." 

Gertie  bowed,  but  Alice's  head  was  high  as  ever,  and  as  she 
had  thrown  oft"  her  hat  she  did  look  funny  with  that  little  ball 
of  hair  perched  on  the  top  of  her  head.  But  it  was  fashion- 
able, and  Alice  led  the  fashions  in  Hampstead,  and  it  was  not 
for  me  to  criticise,  though  I  did  mentally  compare  the  two  girls, 
as  they  stood  there  side  by  side,  Gertie,  with  her  wealth  of 
auburn  hair,  on  which  the  setting  sunlight  fell,  her  blue  eyes 
opened  wide  and  full  of  eager  interest  in  the  girl  who  was  en- 
gaged, her  simple  gingham  frock,  her  pretty  frilled  white  apron 
and  rather  coarse  shoes  ;  the  whole  so  different  from  the  ruffled 
silk,  old  enough  for  a  woman  of  twenty-five,  the  dainty  boots  of 
bronze,  the  profusion  of  jewelry,  the  elaborately  arranged  hair, 
the  small,  retrousse  nose,  and  the  half-shut  sleepy  eyes  which 
stared  so  hard  at  Gertie,  as  if  she  were  a  new  species  of  the  ani- 
mal kingdom  never  seen  before. 

"  Yes,  1  heard  Godfrey  had  some  new  tenants  in  his 
house,"  Alice  said  ;  "  and  1  am  glad  to  know  the  woman  can 
se\v  and  flute.  I  wonder  if  she  does  it  well  ?  Did  she  do 
this  ?  " 

And  she  put  out  her  hand  to  lift  Gertie's  apron  for  inspec- 
tion. 

But  the  child  took  a  step  backward,  and  said,  with  the  manner 
of  a  cUichess  : 


MRS.  KOGERS  AND    GERTIE  AT  HAMPSTEAD.      ijl 

"  Yes,  she  did  this  ;  and  she  sews  very  well.  You  can  judge 
Tor  yourself  by  trying  her." 

Alice  elevated  her  eyebrows  and  nose,  and  I  was  almost  cer- 
tain the  ball  on  her  head  took  an  upward  inclination  too,  but 
she  said  nothing  except  that  she  would  call  to-morrow  and  see 
the  woman. 

"  What  is  her  name,  did  you  say  ?" 

1  told  her  Mrs.  Rogers  ;  and  with  a  little  nod  that  she  under- 
stood me,  she  added  : 

"  You  ought  to  see  the  way  Miss  Christine  is  in.  It's  too 
comical  for  anything,  and  would  amuse  me  vastly  were  it  not 
that  I,  too,  feel  vexed,  and  annoyed,  and  sorry  for  the  girls. 
It's  too  bad  to  have  such  a  stepmother  brought  home  to  them, 
and  I  do  not  blame  them  for  feeling  aggrieved.  I  should 
rebel,  too,  to  have  such  a  woman  thrust  upon  me." 

Gertie  had  stood  very  quietly  listening  to  Miss  Creighton, 
her  eyes  growing  larger  and  darker,  and  the  blood  mounting  to 
her  cheeks  and  brow,  which  were  crimson,  as  she  burst  out : 

"It  isn't  so,  Miss  Creighton,  if  by  '  such  a  woman'  you  mean 
something  bad.  It  is  not  so.  Lady  Edith  is  beautiful.  I 
know  her.  I've  seen  her.  She  gave  me  a  shawl  and  sent  me 
things  when  I  was  sick." 

Alice,  who  was  or  affected  to  be  near-sighted,  and  carried  a 
glass  at  her  side,  raised  it  to  her  eyes  and  inspected  this  cham- 
pion of  Mrs.  Schuyler,  saying,  with  a  little  laugh  : 

"  Really,  I  am  glad  to  meet  with  one  of  Mrs.  Schuyler's  ac- 
quaintances, and  to  hear  so  good  an  account  of  her.  Pray,  do 
you  know  her  well  ?  " 

Gertie  understood  her  meaning,  and  answered,  spiritedly : 

"  I  am  not  one  of  her  acquaintances.  I  am  nobody  but  Gertie 
Westbrooke,  but  I've  seen  her  many  times  in  the  grounds  at 
Oakwood,  and  when  she  came  to  her  mother's  where  we  had 
lodgings,  and  I  know  she  is  good,  and  pretty,  and  a  lady,  and 
Mr.  Godfrey  likes  her." 

"Do  you  know  Godfrey  too?  Your  circle  of  friends  must  be 
quite  extended,"  was  Alice's  next  remark,  to  which  Gertie  did 
not  reply. 


17*  MRS.  ROGERS  GETS  WORK. 

She  was  tying  on  her  bonnet,  and  only  gave  a  quick,  angry 
glance  at  Miss  Creighton  as  she  started  to  walk  away. 

"That's  a  queer  little  thing,"  Alice  said,  as  I  stood  a  mo- 
ment with  her.  '-  Rather  pretty,  too,  isn't  she,  with  those  blue 
eyes  and  that  bright  hair.  How  she  did  flame  up  though  in  Mrs. 
Schuyler's  defence  !  Her  account  of  the  lady  does  not  tally 
with  Godfrey's,  but  then  I  suppose  it  was  the  shawl  and  the  nice 
things  which  caught  her  fancy.  Did  she  say  she  was  a  lodger  of 
Mrs.  Schuyler's  mother?  That  is  something  quite  new,  and 
worse  than  the  hired  companion.  Poor  Jule  and  Emma.  I 
really  pity  them,  and  they  so  proud  and  exclusive." 

"  Alice,  Alice,  come,  we  want  you,"  came  floating  across  the 
lawn  from  Julia  Schuyler,  and  with  a  quick  little  nod,  such  as 
she  always  gave  me,  Miss  Creighton  went  back  to  her  compan- 
ions, leaving  me  to  think  of  what  Gertie  had  said  about  lodging 
with  Mrs.  Schuyler's  mother,  and  to  feel,  it  may  be,  inly  glad 
that  the  Schuylers  were  to  be  punished  a  little  for  their  arrogance 
and  pride. 

I  did  not  know  Edith  then. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

MRS.  ROGERS  GETS  WORK. 

[ERTIE  seemed  from  the  first  much  interested  in  the 
young  ladies  at  the  Hill,  but  with  the  exception  of  the 
night  when  Alice  came  across  the  fields  to  speak  to  me, 
she  had  only  seen  them  at  a  distance,  while  they,  absorbed  as 
they  were  in  more  important  matters,  had  scarcely  thought  of 
the  occupants  of  the  cottage.  Alice's  sewing,  however,  was 
peremptory,  and  as  her  own  seamstress  did  not  come  back  she 
resolved  at  last  to  call  on  Mrs.  Rogers,  and  drove,  with  Emma, 
to  the  house,  where  they  found  Gertie  sitting  on  the  low  piazza 
absorbed  in  a  book  and  making  a  very  striking  picture,  with 
her  bright  hair  falling  around  her  face  and  neck  as  her  blue 
eyes  looked  up  at  the  strangers. 


MRS.  ROGERS  GETS  WORK.  1 73 

"  Is  your  mother  at  home  ?  "  Alice  asked  ;  and  the  child  re- 
plied : 

"  She  is  not  my  mother,  and  she  is  out  just  now.  Can  I  tell 
her  anything  from  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  Alice  said,  a  little  impatiently,  "  that  is  just  my  luck. 
I  wanted  so  much  to  see  her  about  some  plain  sewing.  Did 
you  say  anything  to  her  about  it,  child  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Gertie.  Yes,  ma'am,  I  told  her,  and  I  think 
she'd  like  to  do  it.  She's  only  gone  to  the  village  after  some 
molasses.  I  am  expecting  her  every  minute.  Will  you  wait 
till  she  comes  ?  " 

Alice  glanced  at  Emma,  who  nodded  her  assent,  while  Gertie 
brought  them  chairs,  and  then  resuming  her  own,  took  up  her 
book  again  and  partly  opened  it. 

"  Pray  don't  let  us  disturb  you,"  Alice  said.  "  We  can  en- 
tertain ourselves.  What  story  are  you  reading  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  a  story,"  Gertie  replied.  "It's  Fasquelle,  and  I'm 
getting  my  lesson." 

"  Fasquelle  !  "  Alice  exclaimed,  in  much  surprise.  "  Are 
you  studying  French  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  and  I've  most  caught  up  with  the  class.  Miss 
Armstrong  says  I  am  doing  famously.  I  like  it  so  much,  only 
here  is  some  English  which  I  cannot  quite  put  into  French. 
These  en's  and  ne-gucres  bother  me.  Perhaps  you  can  help 
me  ?  " 

And  with  the  utmost  sang  froid  Gertie  brought  her  grammar 
to  Alice,  and  with  her  finger  indicated  the  troublesome  passage, 
which  Alice  rendered  for  her. 

"  She  is  a  queer  little  thing,"  Alice  thought,  as  she  went  back 
to  her  chair  and  her  lesson,  while  Emma  mentally  pronounced 
her  the  most  beautiful  child  she  had  ever  seen. 

Some  such  thought  flitted  through  Alice's  mind,  and  when  the 
lesson  was  gone  through,  and  Gertie  closed  her  book,  she  began 
to  question  her  by  asking  how  old  she  was,  and  where  she  had 
lived,  and  what  Mrs.  Rogers  was  to  her  if  she  was  not  her 
mother.  And  Gertie  told  her  all  she  knew  of  herself  and  her 
father  and  mother,  and  that  she  had  a  grandmother  and  forty 


174  MRS.  ROGERS  GETS  WORK. 

pounds  a  year.  And  then  she  spoke  of  her  aunt's  loss  in  the 
bank  shares,  and  added  : 

"  After  that,  we  couldn't  lodge  any  more,  because,  you  see, 
we  are  poor,  and  so  we  came  to  America  to  seek  our  fortune 
and  be  near  Norah,  Mrs.  Schuyler's  maid,  who  is  auntie's 
cousin,  you  know." 

Here  was  an  opportunity  for  learning  something  definite  of 
Edith,  and  Alice  was  about  to  question  Gertie  when  Mrs.  Rog- 
ers appeared,  a  jug  of  molasses  in  one  hand  and  a  basket  of 
eggs  in  the  other.  She  seemed  flurried  and  surprised  at  sight 
of  the  ladies,  and  asked  Gertie  why  she  had  not  invited  them  in. 

"  We.  are  better  here,"  Alice  said.  "  We  only  came  on  busi- 
ness. I  am  wanting  some  plain  sewing  done,  and  called  to  see 
if  you  can  do  it  for  me." 

She  was  civil  enough,  and  Mrs.  Rogers,  who  really  wanted 
work,  signified  her  willingness  to  do  anything  she  could.  Speci- 
mens of  her  handiwork  were  brought  forth  for  examination,  and 
Alice  criticised  and  offered  suggestions  with  the  manner  of  a 
woman  of  forty,  and  finally  arranged  to  try  her,  provided  the 
price  was  not  too  high.  That,  too,  proved  satisfactory,  and 
then  the  young  lady  arose  to  take  leave,  saying  : 

"  Perhaps  you  will  let  your  little  girl  come  for  the  work,  to- 
morrow." 

"No,  I  will  go  myself,"  Mrs.  Rogers  answered  quickly,  and 
added,  in  an  undertone  :  "  it  is  not  as  if  she  were  my  own  child, 
and  in  my  station  in  life.  She  is  different,  and  must  be  brought 
up  different.  I  mean  she  shall  have  the  very  best  of  educations. 
Do  you  know  of  any  piano  I  can  rent,  or  of  any  place  where 
she  can  go  to  practise  ?  I  mean  her  to  take  lessons  at  once." 

Alice  stared  wonderingly  at  her,  and  answered  rather  haugh- 
tily that  she  knew  nothing  about  renting  pianos,  or  places 
where  one  could  practise. 

"Such  airs  !"  she  said  to  Emma,  as  they  walked  home  to- 
gether. "  French  and  music  with  clear-starching  and  plain 
sewing.  That  girl  will  be  much  better  off  to  be  brought  up  to 
work  than  to  get  such  notions  into  her  head." 

"Yes,  but  isn't  she  pretty?"   Emma  said,  remembering  the 


THEY  COME.  I  75 

flowing  hair,  the  soft,  blue  eyes,  and  the  fair,  round  face  more 
distinctly  than  she  did  Fasquelle,  and  the  airs  which  had  so 
offended  Alice. 

"  Pretty  enough.  Such  people  often  are  when  young,  but 
they  always  degenerate  sadly." 

'•Yes,  but  she  is  not  like  such  people,"  Emma  rejoined. 
"  Don't  you  remember  what  the  woman  said  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  The  child  has  a  grandmother  and  forty 
pounds  a  year,  but  for  all  that  I  reckon  she  is  about  like  Mrs. 
Rogers,  and  would  much  better  be  learning  to  sew  than  play- 
ing the  piano.  I  wonder  if  she  would  not  like  to  practise  on 
your  beautiful  Steinwav." 

Alice  spoke  contemptuously,  not  from  any  feeling  toward 
Gertie  especially,  but  from  contempt  for  those  of  her  class  who 
aspired  to  something  better.  They  had  no  business  to  be  am- 
bitious ;  it  was  their  duty  to  be  content  in  the  station  where 
God  had  placed  them.  This  was  her  theory,  and  she  continued 
to  dwell  upon  it  even  after  she  reached  home,  and  made  a  good 
deal  of  fun  of  the  girl  with  forty  pounds  a  year  and  a  grand- 
mother, who  had  asked  her  help  in  French,  and  was  going  to 
take  music  lessons  ! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THEY    COME. 

|JT  was  the  day  after  the  young  ladies'  visit  to  Vine  Cot- 
tage and  the  third  week  since  Mrs.  Rogers'  arrival  in 
town.  I  had  dismissed  my  school  earlier  than  usual 
that  afternoon,  and  at  Gertie's  request,  went  with  her  to  the 
Schuyler  Cemetery.  She  had  heard  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schuv- 
ler  and  Godfrey  were  expected  every  day,  and  she  wanted  to 
have  that  grave  looking  real  nice,  as  she  was  sure  Mr.  Godfrey 
would  be  pleased  to  find  that  somebody  had  cared  for  it.  So 
it  was  for  Godfrey's  sake  that  she  weeded,  and  dug,  and  trimmed, 
and  watered,  while  I  sat  watching  her,  and  thinking  of  another 


176  THEY  COME. 

young  girl,  who,  years  ago,  had  laid  her  face  in  the  grass  and 
wept  for  the  dead  beneath  it. 

Where  was  she  now  ?  Dead,  perhaps,  and  gone  to  the  lover 
lost  so  early  ;  or  it  might  be  that  she  was  married  and  had  for- 
gotten that  far-off  grave,  which  she  had  bidden  me  keep  till  she 
came  back  again.  I  had  neglected  it  of  late,  but  my  work  was 
taken  from  my  hands  by  little  Gertie  Westbrooke,  who  had 
made  a  miniature  garden  of  the  spot,  and  brought  to  light  and 
life  the  flowers  I  had  put  there  in  the  summers  past  and  gone. 
There  were  clumps  of  white  daisies  and  blue  forget-me-nots, 
and  the  sweet  English  violet,  with  other  hardy  roots  which  bear 
our  northern  winters,  while  the  rose  brought  from  Vine  Cottage 
yard  had  wound  itself  round  the  tall  monument,  and  was  reach- 
ing out  its  arms  toward  the  evergreen  which  grew  near  by. 
There  were  some  violets  in  blossom  now,  while,  better  than  all, 
there  was  a  clump  of  buds  upon  the  rose  tree,  the  summer's 
second  growth,  and  Gertie  plucked  two  of  them,  and  gathered 
some  white  daisies  and  blue  forget-me-nots,  and  sitting  down 
upon  the  grass  she  made  them  into  a  tiny  bouquet,  with  sweet- 
brier  for  a  background  of  green,  and  told  me  she  was  going  to 
carry  them  home  and  keep  them  in  her  room. 

I  had  shown  her  the  little  vase  which  Heloise  Forclham  left 
with  me,  and  she  had  filled  it  with  flowers  that  afternoon  and 
brought  it  to  the  grave,  where,  just  under  the  shadow  of  the 
rose,  it  stood  a  sweet  offering  to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  who, 
far  away  in  the  other  world,  knew,  perhaps,  whose  feet  were 
treading  the  sod  above  him,  and  whose  the  little  hands  so  busy 
with  his  grave. 

•  How  pretty  my  darling  was  that  afternoon,  with  the  flush  on 
her  face  and  the  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  as,  with  the  bouquet  in  her 
hands,  she  walked  with  me  back  to  the  cottage,  where  I  was 
going  to  help  her  a  little  in  her  French ;  and  how  gayly  she 
chattered,  sometimes  about  herself  and  what  she  meant  to  be, 
and  then  of  the  young  ladies  from  the  Hill  who  had  called  at 
the  cottage  the  day  before. 

"  I  don't  think  Miss  Creighton  very  pretty,"  she  said,  "  though 
she  looks  just  like  the  pictures  in  the  fashion  books.  Miss 


THE  Y  COME.  1 7  7 

Emma  is  handsomer  than  she,  but  neither  are  half  as  handsome 
as  Mrs.  Schuyler." 

"  I  believe  you  think  Mrs.  Schuyler  very  pretty,"  I  said,  and 
she  replied : 

"  Pretty,  I  guess  she  is  !  She  is  beautiful, — just  like  a  grand 
duchess." 

"  How  old  is  she  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     How  old  are  you,  Miss  Armstrong?" 

I  told  her  almost  twenty-seven,  and  she  exclaimed  : 

"  That  is  very  old  !  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Schuyler  can  be  half 
as  old  as  that.  She  looks  just  like  a  girl.  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  there 
she  is  !  There  she  is !  Look,  look,  Miss  Armstrong,  they 
come  !  they  come  !  " 

We  were  very  near  Gertie's  home,  and  the  excited  child 
pointed  toward  an  open  barouche  which  had  turned  the  corner 
and  was  just  opposite  the  cottage.  I  recognized  Colonel  Schuy- 
ler at  once,  but  not  for  an  instant  did  my  gaze  rest  on  him  ;  it 
wandered  to  the  lady  at  his  side,  the  peerless  creature  whose 
fine-cut  face,  framed  in  masses  of  golden-brown  hair,  was  white 
and  pure  as  a  water-lily,  and  whose  dark  eyes  scanned  eagerly 
the  cottage  and  its  surroundings,  and  then  rested  upon  Gertie 
and  myself  with  a  curious,  wondering  look. 

"  I  mean  to  throw  her  this  as  a  welcome,"  Gertie  cried,  and 
the  bouquet  gathered  from  Abelard's  grave  went  whirling  through 
the  air,  and  fell  directly  in  Edith's  lap}  while  Gertie  snatched 
her  bonnet  from  her  head  and  shook  it  toward  the  carriage, 
her  hair  falling  in  rippling  waves  around  her  shoulders,  and  her 
face  radiant  with  joy. 

How  the  lady's  eyes  gleamed,  while  the  expression  of  her 
face  and  the  wondrous  smile  which  wreathed  her  lips  and 
showed  her  white,  even  teeth,  I  never  shall  forget.  She  held 
the  bouquet  in  her  hand,  and  we  heard  her  distinctly  utter  the 
word  "  thanks,"  as  the  carriage  went  rapidly  by.  Twice  she 
looked  back,  the  same  smile  on  her  face  and  the  same  pleased 
look  in  her  eye,  as  Gertie  kissed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  and 
threw  them  toward  her. 

"  Isn't  she  beautiful  ?  "  Gertie  asked. 
8* 


178  HOW  THEY  RECEIVED  HER. 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful,  I  replied,"  as  I  stood  looking  after  her, 
and  wondering  at  the  opinion  so  different  held  of  her  at  Schuy- 
ler  Hill,  and  wondering,  too,  what  they  would  think  of  her  when 
they  found  what  she  was  like. 

Afterward  I  heard  from  one  and  another  what  they  thought, 
and  said,  and  did,  and  will  narrate  in 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

HOW   THEY   RECEIVED    HER. 

|N  their  return  from  the  cottage  the  previous  night, 
Alice  and  Emma  found  that  during  their  absence  a 
telegram  had  come  from  Colonel  Schuyler,  who  said 
he  should  be  home  the  following  day,  and  asked  that  the 
carriage  might  meet  him  at  the  station. 

Miss  Rossiter,  of  course,  did  not  sleep  a  wink,  and  came 
down  "to  breakfast  looking  frightfully  haggard  and  yellow,  while 
Julia  was  pale  and  subdued,  and  Emma  showed  traces  of  tears. 
It  was  almost  as  bad  as  the  day  of  the  first  Mrs.  Schuyler's 
funeral,  and  only  Mrs.  Tiffe  and  Perry  showed  any  signs  of  in- 
terest in  the  coming  event. 

But  as  the  day  wore  on  the  girls  brightened  up,  and  Alice 
and  the  governess  made  some  bouquets  for  the  dinner  table, 
and  put  one  in  Godfrey's  room,  but  none  in  those  of  the  bride. 
Flowers  were  not  for  her,  a  woman  of  forty  with  a  squint  and  a 
limp  and  glasses  !  So  they  only  opened  the  windows  of  her 
rooms  and  let  in  the  soft  air  of  early  September,  and  Emma 
cried  a  little  as  she  looked  across  the  lawn  to  where  her  mother 
slept,  and  wondered  if  she  knew,  or  knowing,  cared  that  another 
was  in  her  place.  And  then  she  went  to  her  Aunt  Christine 
and  told  her  it  was  time  to  dress,  and  asked  if  she  was  coining 
down.  Miss  Rossiter  had  the  headache  and  lay  upon  the  couch, 
and  said  she  must  be  excused.  She  could  not  meet  the  woman 
that  night ;  she  must  wait  till  morning,  when  she  hoped  to  be 
stronger  and  better  able  to  bear  it.  So  Emma  dropped  the 
shades  and  brought  the  camphor  to  her  aunt  and  smoothed  her 


H0 11'  THE  Y  RECEIVED  HER.  \  79 

hair  a  moment,  and  almost  wished  she,  too,  had  the  headache, 
and  then  went  to  Alice  and  Julia,  who  were  dressing,  and  who 
gave  her  a  meaning  look  as  she  entered. 

"What,  black  this  warm  day?"  Emma  exclaimed,  as  she 
saw  Julia  had  chosen  a  plain  black  grenadine,  which,  with  the 
simple  white  band  about  her  neck,  gave  her  the  look  of  one  in 
mourning. 

"Yes,  black,"  Julia  replied.  "  I  do  not  feel  like  decking 
myself  as  for  a  festival.  This  is  no  holiday  to  us,  and  Kitty 
has  brought  out  your  plain  grenadine  for  you." 

"  And  I  am  horrid  in  black,"  Emma  said,  plaintively  ;  but  she 
usually  submitted  to  the  stronger  will  of  her  sister,  and  so  she 
donned  the  black  dress  which  made  her  look  so  like  a  nun  that, 
braving  Julia's  displeasure,  she  ventured  to  tie  a  bit  of  lavender 
ribbon  in  her  hair,  and  was  delighted  at  the  effect. 

"Look,  isn't  it  becoming?"  she  said.  "  Surely  half-mourning 
is  admissible  on  the  occasion  of  the  new  mother's  advent." 

Even  Julia  admitted  that  the  effect  was  good,  and  as  she  was 
herself  an  ardent  lover  of  dress  and  had  adopted  her  plain  garb 
more  from  resentment  to  the  living  than  respect  for  the  dead, 
she  too  tried  the  effect  of  lavender,  and  fastened  at  her  throat 
a  pretty  bow  of  ribbon,  which  brightened  her  up  wonderfully. 
Alice,  who  had  nothing  to  resent,  and  who  wished  to  be  as  at- 
tractive as  possible  to  Godfrey  after  his  long  absence,  indulged 
her  taste  to  its  fullest  extent,  and  succeeded  in  getting  her 
hair  higher  than  she  had  ever  gotten  it  before.  Godfrey  was  of 
course  accustomed  to  the  very  latest  styles  of  Parisian  hair- 
dressing,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  appear  singular  to  him,  she 
said,  when  Emma  exclaimed  : 

';  Why,  Alice,  how  funny  you  do  look  ! " 

Taken  as  a  whole,  she  was  frightfully  and  fashionably  dressed, 
and  very  much  pleased  with  her  tout  ensemble,  and  certain  she 
should  completely  overawe  and  confound  the  plain  woman  of 
forty,  who  was  momentarily  expected.  The  barouche  had  been 
sent  for  the  colonel  according  to  his  orders,  and  Godfrey's 
buggy  had  been  sent  for  him.  as  he  might  bring  a  friend  with  him, 
his  telegram  said.  But  Robert  Macpherson  was  not  quite  ready 


1 80  HO  W  THE  Y  RECEIVED  HER. 

to  leave  New  York,  and  preferred  coming  to  the  country  a  few 
days  later.  So  Godfrey  drove  home  alone,  choosing  a  shorter 
road  than  that  taken  by  the  barouche,  and  reaching  the  house 
some  ten  minutes  earlier  than  his  father. 

"  Oh,  girls,  girls,  there  is  Godfrey  ! "  Emma  cried,  as  she 
caught  sight  of  her  brother  driving  up  to  the  rear  of  the  house  ; 
and  rushing  out  to  meet  him  she  threw  her  arms  around  him  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"  Why,  Emma,  you  dear  little  goose,"  he  said,  as  he  bent  his 
tall  figure  down  to  kiss  her,  "  what  are  you  crying  about  ?  Sorry 
to  get  your  scamp  of  a  brother  back,  eh  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Godfrey.  I'm  so  glad  to  have  you,  only  I  dread 
that  woman  !  Is  she  so  very  horrid  ?" 

"  Horrid  !  Who  horrid  ? "  Godfrey  asked,  while  every 
muscle  of  his  face  twitched  with  suppressed  mirth.  "  Do  you 
mean  the  new  mother  ?  You  must  not  mind  her  looks ;  beauty 
is  only  skin  deep,  and  she  is  like  a  singed  cat,  better  than  she 
looks.  You  are  sure  to  like  her.  Ah,  Julia,  my  darling,  how 
like  a  sister  of  charity  you  look  !  "  he  continued,  as  he  released 
Emma,  and  kissing  his  other  sister  affectionally,  he  wound  an 
arm  around  each  of  the  girls,  and  walked  to  the  house,  where 
Alice  was  waiting  for  him,  and  scanning  him  curiously. 

"  He  certainly  has  improved  in  looks,  and  there  is  quite  a 
foreign  air  about  him,  and  his  clothes  are  Paris  made,"  she 
thought,  and  her  spirits  rose  proportionately  as  she  advanced 
leisurely  to  meet  him. 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle  Alice,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Comment  rous 
portez  vous,"  and  kissing  her  loudly  on  both  cheeks  he  contin- 
ued :  "  Quc pensez-vous  de  celal  Doesn't  it  smack  of  foreign 
travel ?  " 

Alice  had  not  quite  expected  this,  but  the  French  delighted 
her,  though  she  inly  pronounced  the  accent  horrid,  and  the 
hearty  kisses  pleased  her,  even  if  they  were  wet  and  loud,  and 
she  blushed  very  becomingly,  and  called  him  a  "  dear,  naughty 
boy,"  and  kept  hold  of  his  hand  until  he  freed  it  from  her, 
thinking  to  himself  that  she  was  unusually  gushing,  and  not  a 
whit  pretty  either. 


HO W  THEY  RECEIVED  HER.  181 

"  By  George,  Allie,"  he  began,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  her  hair. 
"  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  I've  quit  slang,"  he  added,  with  a 
thought  of  Gertie  Westbrooke  ;  "  but,  Allie,  what  is  that  on 
the  top  of  your  head  ?  It  looks  like  the  door-knob,  and  makes 
me  think  of  that  picture  of  William  Tell's  boy  with  the  big 
apple  on  his  head.  Got  a  story  above  the  style  this  time. 
Should  think  you'd  take  cold  in  the  back  of  your  neck.  They 
don't  wear  it  so  in  Par-ee." 

And  with  his  light  badinage  he  demolished  Alice's  hopes  of 
admiration,  and  struck  a  blow  at  the  wonderful  structure  she 
had  spent  so  much  time  in  rearing. 

"  Godfrey,  Godfrey,"  Julia  cried  in  a  tremor  of  distress  and 
agitation  as  she  caught  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  felt  that  the 
catastrophe  so  dreaded  was  coming  at  last.  "  Tell  us  true,  is 
she  so  fearfully  ugly  ?  " 

"  She's  wonderful,  and  you  may  as  well  bring  out  your  smell- 
ing salts  and  camphor,"  Godfrey  replied ;  and  then  grasping 
Julia  by  the  shoulder  and  calling  to  his  other  sister :  "  Come, 
Em,  and  see  the  elephant,"  he  led  the  way  to  the  front  door, 
where  Edith  stood  looking  eagerly  about  her,  not  limping  nor 
squinting,  nor  ugly,  nor  old,  but  a  marvellously  beautiful  woman, 
with  ease  and  grace  in  every  motion,  and  no  sign  of  embarrass- 
ment or  awkwardness  about  her. 

"  There  was  a  flush  on  her  cheek  and  a  glitter  in  her  eyes, 
but  otherwise  she  was  calm  and  self-possessed  when  her  husband 
took  her  hand  and  led  her  up  the  steps  to  the  group  of  aston- 
ished and  bewildered  girls,  who  had  looked  this  way  and  that, 
and  then,  under  their  breath,  had  ejaculated,  hurriedly : 

"Why  —  what  —  who  —  oh  —  oh  —  Godfrey,  Godfrey,  you 
WRETCH  !  " 

And  that  last  word  embodied  Julia's  feelings,  as,  with  one 
glance  at  her  brother,  who  stood  choking  with  laughter,  she 
went  to  meet  the  stranger. 

"  Julia,  my  eldest  daughter ;  Mrs.  Schuyler,  your  new  mother, 
and  I  hope  you  will  love  each  other,"  the  colonel  said. 

And  then  Julia  felt  her  hand  taken  in  one  as  soft,  and  small, 
and  perfectly  formed  as  her  own,  and  a  sweet  voice  said,  as 


1 8 2  HOW  THE  Y  RECEIVED  HER. 

if  to  relieve  her  from  any  embarrassment  respecting  the 
mother  : 

"  We  will  be  sisters,  I  am  sure.     Kiss  me,  Julia." 

This  was  not  what  the  young  lady  had  expected.  No  thought 
of  kissing  had  entered  her  mind.  Indeed,  she  meant  to  freeze 
the  adventuress  by  her  formality  and  dignity,  and  lo,  the  woman 
was  dictating  terms  to  her,  saying  they  would  be  sisters  and 
asking  for  a  kiss  !  But  it  was  not  hard  to  kiss  the  smooth, 
round  cheek  offered  to  her,  and,  when  the  sweet  voice  said 
again,  "  You  will  love  me,  Julia,  I  am  sure,  and  let  me  love 
you,"  the  haughty  girl  answered  involuntarily,  "  Yes,  I  will," 
and  then,  with  a  tear  actually  wetting  her  eyelashes,  stood  back 
to  give  place  to  Emma,  who,  more  impulsive  than  herself,  went 
headlong  into  the  arms  which  Edith  held  toward  her,  and  cried 
like  a  little  child. 

Miss  Creighton  came  next,  bowing  almost  to  the  ground  and 
offering  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  the  lady,  who  received  her 
just  as  coldly,  though  with  far  more  ease  and  graceful  breeding 
perceptible  in  her  manner. 

They  were  in  the  hall  by  this  time,  and  Mrs.  Tiffe  stood  wait- 
ing to  greet  her  new  mistress,  her  black  silk  rustling  at  every 
step  and  her  yellow  lace  showing  age  and  cost,  as  with  her  gold- 
bowed  glasses  in  her  hand  and  her  bunch  of  keys  jingling 
suggestively  on  the  chain  at  her  side,  she  paid  her  respects  to 
madame,  and  thought  as  she  did  so  how  she  would  like  to 
thrash  the  scapegrace,  Godfrey,  who  had  so  misled  them.  He 
was  choking  with  laughter  just  outside  the  door,  where  his  sis- 
ters were  going  through  with  a  pantomime  of  threatening  ges- 
tures for  the  trick  played  upon  them. 

"  Godfrey  Schuyler,  how  could  you  ?  "  Julia  began  in  a  whis- 
per, while  Godfrey  suddenly  remembering  that  he  had  not  seen 
his  Aunt  Christine,  stepped  back  into  the  hall  and  asked  where 
she  was. 

On  being  told  she  had  a  headache,  he  said  : 

"  I  must  go  up  and  see  her,"  and  with  a  sign  for  Julia  and 
Alice  to  follow,  he  ran  up  the  stairs  in  the  direction  of  Miss 
Rossiter's  room. 


HOW  THEY  RECEIVED  HER.  183 

But  Emma  was  there  before  them.  As  soon  as  the  first  mo- 
ment of  amazement  was  over  she  had  gone  swiftly  to  her  aunt's 
chamber,  and  rushing  in  unannounced,  had  exclaimed  : 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Christine,  she  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  you 
ever  looked  upon.  It  was  all  a  fib  he  wrote  us.  She  is  splen- 
did and  hasn't  a  bit  of  a  limp  nor  anything,  and  looks  about 
twenty.  Do  get  up,  auntie,  and  go  to  dinner." 

Miss  Rossiter  was  amazed,  and  sitting  up  on  the  side  of  her 
bed,  was  trying  to  knot  her  long  black  hair  under  her  net, 
while  she  put  some  questions  to  Emma,  when  the  door  burst 
open  a  second  time,  and  Godfrey  himself  came  in  full  of  life, 
and  health,  and  vigor,  and  by  his  very  presence  doing  more  to 
dissipate  the  lady's  headache  than  all  the  drugs  in  her  closet. 

"  Hallo,  Aunt  Christine,"  he  said;  "done  up  in  camphor  and 
herbs,  as  usual?  Let's  try  what  a  little  exercise  will  do  for 
you." 

And  taking  her  in  his  arms  he  waltzed  gayly  about  the  room, 
the  girls  laughing  and  the  lady  protesting  and  struggling  to  get 
free,  until  .she  had  danced  her  hair  down  and  a  bright  color  into 
her  face. 

"  There,  auntie,  you  are  real  handsome  now,"  Godfrey  said, 
as  he  released  her  with  a  hearty  kiss,  and  leading  her  to  the 
couch,  seated  himself  beside  her,  with  his  arm  around  her  waist. 
"  Now,  girls,  pitch  in  ;  I'm  ready  for  you,"  he  said  ;  as  they 
began  to  accuse  him  of  deceit  in  its  most  aggravating  form,  ask- 
ing how  he  could  do  it. 

"  Do  what  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What  are  you  making  such  a  fuss 
about  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  you'd  ask,"  Julia  replied.  "  Telling  us  she 
was  forty  and  had  a  glass  eye,  and  a  squawk  in  her  voice,  and 
everything  else  that  is  bad." 

"  I  never  told  you  any  such  thing,"  Godfrey  answered,  with 
great  gravity  ;  and  the  three  girls  exclaimed,  in  chorus  : 

"  Oh,  Godfrey  Schuyler  !  You  did,  you  did.  We  have  the 
letter.  You  wrote,  'Think  of  father's  marrying  a  woman  of 
forty  with  a  glass  eye,  and '  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  well,  of  course,  that's  a  different  thing,"  Godfrey 


1 84  HOW  THE Y  RE CEI VED  HER. 

replied.  "  I  did  tell  you  to  think  of  it,  I  know,  and  you  evi- 
dently have  thought  of  it,  and  had  a  good  time  at  it,  but  I 
never  said  it  was  so.  1  told  you  '  she  would  take  your  breath 
away  when  you  saw  her,'  and  she  did.  You  all  three  opened 
your  eyes  and  mouths  and  stared  at  her  as  if  you  never  saw  a 
handsome  woman  before.  And  .she  is  handsome,  isn't  she? 
Now,  confess  it,  girls ;  and  say  she  is  the  loveliest  creature  you 
ever  saw " 

"  Oh,  Godfrey,  I  do  believe  you  are  half  in  love  with  her 
yourself,"  Alice  said,  a  little  reproachfully,  and  the  young  man 
replied : 

"To  be  sure  I  am  ;  and  if  she  had  been  younger  there's  no 
telling  what  I  might  have  done,  but  when  I  subtracted  eighteen 
from  twenty-eight,  I  said  to  myself,  '  that  will  never  do ;  a  man 
may  not  marry  his  grandmother  ; '  and  then,  Alice,  I  knew  there 
was  a  little  pug  nose  over  the  sea,  which  would  get  very  red 
and  ugly  looking  if  I  did  that,"  he  added,  mischievously,  as  he 
saw  the  disturbed  look  on  Alice's  face,  and  knew  why  it  was 
there. 

"Is  she  tv/ernty-eight ?  She  does  not  look  it,"  Emma  said, 
while  Julia  and  Alice  declared  she  did ;  and  then  as  women, 
especially  envious  ones,  will  do,  they  picked  her  to  pieces,  from 
her  head  to  her  feet,  and  putting  her  together  again,  decided 
that  though  they  had  seen  much  finer  faces  and  prettier,  too, 
her  tout  ensemble  was  very  good,  and  they  were  so  much  re- 
lieved, as  they  had  expected  something  horrid,  of  which  even 
the  villagers  would  make  fun. 

"  Wait  till  you  see  her  in  her  dinner  dress,"  Godfrey  said. 
"I  tell  you  her  gowns  are  elegant,  Paris  made,  too.  I've  seen 
them.  I  know.  I've  travelled."  (This  with  a  wink  at  Alice.) 
"  And  that  reminds  me,  Jule  and  Em,  why  are  you  rigged  out 
in  black,  this  warm,  pleasant  day  ?  You  look  as  if  you  were  in 
mourning.  I  believe  you  did  it  on  purpose  too,  but  I  tell  you 
she  is  stunning  in  her  dinner  costumes,  and  if  you  don't  wish  to 
be  thrown  quite  in  the  shade,  I'd  take  off  those  black  things, 
and  put  on  something  fluffy  and  light  and  airy  and  becoming  ; 
and  you,  auntie,  certainly  do  not  mean  to  stay  mewed  up  here 


HOW  THEY  RECEIVED  HER.  185 

on  toast  and  oatmeal,  while  we  are  at  dinner.  Take  a  big 
drink  from  every  bottle  in  the  closet,  and  if  that  don't  do,  try 
some  of  your  lightning.  I'll  fix  the  battery  ;  and  then  dress 
yourself  and  go  down,  and  look  handsome  and  bright.  Why, 
I  think  you've  grown  pretty  and  young  while  I  was  gone,  and 
I  want  that  beauty  to  see  that  all  the  good  looks  are  not 
on  her  side.  The  Schuylers  have  some  of  it.  Come,  girls, 
hurry  up." 

They  could  not  withstand  Godfrey,  especially  when  he  min- 
gled a  little  seasonable  flattery  with  his  persuasions,  and  both 
Julia  and  Emma  went  to  their  rooms  to  change  their  dress, 
while  Miss  Rossiter  expressed  her  willingness  to  go  down  if  she 
could  be  ready  in  time. 

"  I'll  help  you.  I  can  do  it  first  rate,"  Godfrey  said,  mis- 
chievously, but  Miss  Rossiter  declined  his  services,  and  ringing 
for  Kitty,  sent  him  from  the  room,  telling  him  he  might  as  well 
attend  to  his  own  toilet. 

"  That's  a  fact,"  he  said.  "  But  my  dressing  won't  take  long. 
Come,  Alice,  let's  go  out  on  the  balcony  awhile  ; "  and  leading 
Miss  Creighton  to  the  glass  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  he 
brought  her  a  chair  and  seated  her  in  it.  "You  won't  have  to 
dress,  and  can  talk  with  me.  You've  got  yourself  up  stunningly, 
especially  that  ball  on  the  top  of  your  head.  Couldn't  have 
put  that  a  peg  higher  if  you  tried,  could  you  ?  I  say,  Alice,  why 
do  you  want  to  make  yourself  such  a  fright  ?  Do  you  think  it 
is  the  style?  It  isn't.  I  saw  a  few  shop-girls  and  bar-maids 
with  their  heads  tricked  out  like  yours,  but  not  one  lady.  I 
believe  you  would  wear  a  boot-jack  if  you  thought  it  was  the 
fashion  in  Paris  !  " 

"Oh,  Godfrey,  don't,  please,  and  you  just  come  home,  too," 
Alice  said,  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice  and  tears  in  her  eyes. 

It  hurt  her  that  he  should  find  fault  with  her  personal  appear- 
ance within  an  hour  of  his  return  after  so  long  an  absence, 
especially  as  she  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  dress  for  him. 
Godfrey  saw  she  was  hurt,  and  said  to  her,  coaxingly,  as  he  put 
his  arm  around  her : 

"  Never  mind,  Alice.     You  are  real  stylish  anyway,  and  I'm 


1 86  HO IV  THEY  RECEIVED  HER. 

so  glad  to  see  you  again.  I  am,  upon  my  word,  and  you  used 
to  write  to  me  such  nice,  sisterly  letters.  Do  you  find  me  im- 
proved ?  " 

"  Yes,  Godfrey,  ever  so  much.  I  knew  you  would  be. 
Travel  always  does  that,"  Alice  said,  her  spirits  a  good  deal 
lightened  by  his  few  words  of  commendation.  "  And,  Godfrey," 
she  continued,  "I  guess  I'll  go  and  fix  my  hair  now.  There 
will  be  time." 

She  choked  a  little,  for  "  fixing  her  hair  "  was  a  vast  amount 
of  trouble,  but  if  Godfrey  was  suited,  she  did  not  care. 

"Nonsense,"  he  said,  tightening  the  grasp  of  his  arm  about 
her  waist,  "  your  hair  is  well  enough  for  once.  Stay  with  me 
and  let's  talk.  Only  think  how  long  it  is  since  you  had  a  chance 
to  lecture  me  except  by  letter,  which  does  not  go  for  much,  and 

I'm  real  glad  to  see  you,  Allie.  I  am,  by  Jo .  No,  I  mean 

I  am,  Allie  ;  1  am  trying  to  quit  my  slang,  though  it  is  like 
pulling  teeth  sometimes." 

"  Yes,  Godfrey,"  and  folding  her  small,  fat  hands  on  her  lap, 
Alice  looked  happy,  and  content,  and  satisfied.  "Yes,  God- 
frey, I  knew  that  trip  abroad  would  effect  great  things  for  you." 

"  Oh,  bother,  Allie,  it  isn't  that.  I  heard  just  as  much  slang, 
and  saw  just  as  many  clowns,  and  snobs,  and  fools  abroad  as  I 
ever  saw  here  ;  and  more  too.  Travel  didn't  improve  my  mind 
or  manners  ;  it  was  a  little  girl.  Oh  !  don't  look  so  disturbed," 
he  added,  as  Alice  bridled  at  the  mention  of  a  girl.  "  You 
needn't  be  jealous  at  all.  She  isn't  bigger  than  my  thumb,  and 
is  only  twelve  years  old.  She  was  on  the  ship  with  us  and  awful 
sick,  and  so  was  I.  I  tell  you  what,  I  have  been  down  to  the 
very  depths  and  felt  deep  calling  unto  deep  in  a  way  I  never 
wish  to  hear  it  call  again.  Ugh  !  the  very  thought  of  that  cold 
creep  which  begins  at  the  toes  and  ends  in  the  spittoon  makes 
me  dizzy  ;  and  with  a  swaying  motion  Godfrey  rocked  from 
side  to  side  until  his  head  rested  on  Alice's  shoulder. 

But  she  moved  away  from  him  with  dignified  propriety, 
saying  : 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  have  been  sea-sick  too  ;  it  is  dreadful ;  but 
what  of  the  little  girl,  and  who  was  she  ?  " 


HO  IV  THE  Y  RECEIVED  HER.  1 8  7 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  was  telling  you  about  her.  She  had  been  sick, 
and  was  sitting  on  deck,  all  wrapped  up  in  shawls  and  blankets, 
and  looking  so  like  some  pure  white  pond-lily,  that  I  kissed  her 
right  on  the  mouth  !  " 

"  Godfrey  ! "  Alice  exclaimed,  indignantly  ;  while  he  rejoined  : 

"  You  are  not  half  as  angry  as  she  was.  I  never  saw  any- 
thing like  the  gleam  in  her  blue  eyes.  Had  I  really  insulted 
her  she  could  not  have  taken  it  worse  than  she  did,  or  reproached 
me  more  sharply.  I  never  heard  anything  like  the  way  she 
talked  to  me.  Why,  I  felt  as  ashamed  as  a  dog,  and  when  she 
attacked  my  slang,  as  she  called  my  free  style  of  talk,  I  promised 
her  I  would  break  myself  of  it  and  try  to  come  up  to  her  idea 
of  a  gentleman." 

"  Her  idea,"  Alice  said.  "  Who  was  she,  pray,  that  she 
should  presume  to  lecture  you  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  there's  no  need  to  be  jealous,"  Godfrey  replied. 
"  Not  of  her,  at  least.  She  is  only  a  child, — not  in  '  our  set,' 
—no  pretension, — no  family, — though  I  believe  she  does  boast 
a  grandmother  and  forty  pounds  a  year." 

"•Oh,  I  know, — Gertie  Rogers,  that  yellow-haired  girl  down 
at  the  cottage  ! "  Alice  exclaimed,  with  a  tone  of  irritation  in 
her  voice. 

"And  so  you  have  seen  Gertie.  Isn't  she  a  beauty?"  God- 
frey said. 

Before  Alice  could  reply  there  was  the  rustle  of  a  dress  and 
the  sound  of  voices  and  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  The  colonel  and 
Edith  were  coming  down,  and  they  went  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  Godfrey  and  Alice  joined  them,  the  latter  scanning  the 
bride  curiously,  and  mentally  acknowledging  her  to  be  the  most 
elegant  woman  she  had  ever  seen,  both  in  face,  and  manner, 
and  dress.  How  exquisitely  beautiful  Edith  was  in  the  grayish 
silk,  with  the  pink  tinge,  which  fitted  her  fine  form  as  only  a 
Paris-made  garment  can  fit.  The  silk  was  of  the  richest  texture, 
while  the  lace  upon  it  was  in  itself  a  fortune,  and  the  bertha 
was  the  most  exquisite  thing  of  the  kind  Alice  had  ever  seen. 

"  How  can  she  be  so  easy  and  self-possessed,  and  she  only  a 
hired  companion?"  Alice  thought,  as  she  saw  how  wholly  un- 


1 88  HO  W  THE  Y  RE  CEIVED  HER. 

embarrassed  Edith  was,  even  when  Mrs.  Rossiter  swept  into 
the  room  in  her  long  trailing  dress  of  black  tissue,  with  her 
scarlet  scarf  around  her,  and  a  few  geranium  leaves  in  her  hair. 

Miss  Rossiter  usually  wore  black  when  in  full  dinner  dress. 
She  knew  it  became  her  better  than  any  other  color,  especially 
when  relieved  with  scarlet  or  white,  and  she  was  handsome 
now  as  she  came  in  with  a  half-eager,  half-wondering  look  upon 
her  face. 

"  Ah,  Christine,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  and  find  you  looking 
so  well,"  Col.  Schuyler  said,  as  he  went  hastily  forward  to 
meet  her.  "  Let  me  present  you  to  my  wife.  Mrs.  Schuyler, 
this  is  Miss  Rossiter,  my  sister, — or  rather, — yes, — the  sister  of 
my  wife  ;  that  is,  I  mean, — the  late  lamented  Emily, — yes." 

"That's  what  I  call  a  very  remarkable  introduction,"  Godfrey 
whispered  to  Alice,  who  turned  away  to  hide  her  laughter,  while 
the  faintest  resemblance  of  a  smile  lurked  in  Edith's  eyes  and 
about  the  corners  of  her  mouth  as  she  extended  her  hand  to  the 
sister  of  the  lamented  Emily  J 

Otherwise  she  was  perfectly  collected,  and  did  not  seem  to 
notice  that  only  the  tips  of  two  fingers  were  given  her,  and  that 
though  the  thin  lips  of  Miss  Rossiter  moved,  the  words  they 
uttered  were  wholly  inaudible.  Miss  Rossiter  had  seen  at  a 
glance  that  the  lady's  beauty  was  not  exaggerated,  but  she 
could  not  feel  altogether  cordial  toward  one  whom  she  consid- 
ered an  intruder,  and  she  purposely  threw  as  much  coldness 
and  haughtiness  as  possible  into  her  manner,  hoping  thus  to 
impress  the  stranger  with  a  sense  of  the  vast  difference  there 
was  between  the  Rossiters  and  the  Lyles.  But  Edith  did  not 
seem  in  the  least  affected  by  the  lady's  hauteur,  and  inquiring 
kindly  if  her  head  was  better,  suggested  that  she  sit  down,  as 
she  must  feel  rather  weak,  and  set  the  example  by  sitting  down 
herself. 

"  If  she  is  not  assuming  the  role  of  mistress  and  patronizing 
me  so  soon,"  was  Miss  Rossiter' s  mental  comment,  and  resolv- 
ing not  to  be  patronized  she  remained  standing  as  straight  as  an 
arrow  and  almost  as  stiff,  talking  to  her  brother-in-law  until  the 
bell  rang  for  dinner,  and  Julia  and  Emma  came  in,  dressed  in 


AFTER  DINNER.  189 

white  and  looking  infinitely  better  than  when  Godfrey  criticised 
them  so  severely. 

The  dining-room  at  Schuyler  Hill  was  one  of  the  pleasantest 
rooms  in  the  house,  and  it  looked  beautifully  now  with  its  glass 
and  silver  and  flowers,  and  Edith  felt  a  pardonable  glow  of  pride 
and  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  this  pleasant  home,  with  all 
its  luxury,  was  hers,  the  gift  of  the  man  who  led  her  so  proudly 
to  her  seat  at  the  head  of  his  table,  and  pressing  her  hand  as  he 
relinquished  it  and  went  back  to  his  post  of  honor  as  master  of 
the  house.  The  colonel,  who  was  inclined  to  be  a  little  stiff  in 
his  manners  among  strangers,  appeared  well  at  home  and  espe- 
cially well  at  his  own  table,  and  Edith,  as  she  looked  at  him  pre- 
siding with  so  much  dignity  and  ease,  thought  what  a  handsome 
gentleman  he  was,  and  felt  herself  blessed  in  the  possession  of 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

AFTER    DINNER. 

]HEY  had  some  music,  Alice  and  Julia  playing  a  duet, 
and  then  the  latter  sang  and  Godfrey  turned  the  leaves 
for  her  and  thought  how  dreadfully  she  screeched,  and 
longed  for  her  to  finish  and  let  Edith  take  her  place.  But  Edith 
could  not  sing  that  night.  There  were  too  many  memories  of 
the  past  crowding  into  her  mind,  and  at  the  very  thought  of 
singing  she  felt  the  iron  hand  touch  her  throat  as  if  in  warning. 

"  Thank  you,  Godfrey ;  some  other  time  I  shall  be  glad  to 
sing,  but  not  to-night.  I  am  too  tired,  and  if  I  may  be  excused, 
I  will  go  to  my  room  very  soon,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  Godfrey's 
urgent  solicitation  for  a  song. 

She  was  very  pale,  and  her  husband  came  to  her  aid  and 
said  : 

"  Yes,  Godfrey,  Mrs.  Schuyler  must  be  excused  ;  she  is  very 
weary,  I  see,  and  needs  to  rest.  Shall  I  take  you  upstairs  ?  " 

He  turned  to  Edith  as  he  said  the  last  words,  and  offering 


1 90  AFTER  DINNER. 

her  his  arm  led  her  from  the  room,  saying  as  he  bade  the  ladies 
good -night  that  he  should  not  return  again  that  evening,  as  he 
had  some  letters  and  papers  to  look  over  in  his  reading  room. 
Thus  left  to  themselves  the  young  people  were  free  to  talk,  and 
Godfrey  threw  down  the  gauntlet  by  asking  his  aunt  what  she 
thought  of  his  new  mother. 

"Isn't  she  splendid  ?"  he  said.  "And  did  you  ever  see  a 
finer  form  than  hers  ?  " 

"  She  is  much  better  than  I  expected,  and  I  am  glad  for  the 
sake  of  my  sister's  memory  ;  had  she  been  at  all  like  your  wicked 
insinuations  I  certainly  should  have  died  with  grief." 

And  then  there  followed  another  criticism  upon  Edith's  face, 
and  form,  and  manners,  and  style,  and  antecedents, — the  critics 
lingering  longest  over  the  latter,  and  insisting  that  Godfrey 
should  be  truthful  and  tell  them  what  he  knew.  But  Godfrey 
didn't  know  anything  except  that  she  had  once  been  a  gover- 
ness and  was  afterward  the  companion  of  their  Aunt  Sinclair, 
who  esteemed  her  highly  and  was  anxious  for  the  match. 

"Has  she  no  relatives?  Who  are  the  Lyles?"  Julia  asked, 
and  Godfrey  answered  : 

"I  don't  know  who  the  Lyles  are,  I  am  sure.  Her  mother 
has  been  married  twice,  and  is  now  a  Mrs.  Barrett,  who  takes 
lodgers  in  London, — a  highly  respectable  looking  woman,  with 
puffs  of  gray  hair.  She  is  not  at  all  like  her  daughter,  and  I 
don't  believe  father  fancied  her  much.  That's  all  I  know;  but 
I'll  tell  you  where  you  can  get  any  information  you  wish  con- 
cerning your  step-grandmother.  That  Mrs.  Rogers  at  the  cot- 
tage,— my  tenant,  you  know, — lodged  with  her  for  some  months. 
Cultivate  her  a  spell  if  you  are  anxious  about  Mrs.  Schuyler's 
pedigree." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Alice  said  ;  "  we  have  cultivated  her,  and  she  is 
to  do  some  plain  sewing  for  me.  Emma  and  I  went  down 
there  yesterday  and  waited  till  she  came  home  with  a  jug  of 
molasses  in  one  hand  and  a  basket  of  eggs  in  the  other,  and 
that  red-haired  girl,  her  daughter,  asked  me  to  render  some 
English  into  French  for  her.  The  idea  of  such  people  study- 
ing French!  (".iris,  Godfrey  thinks  she's  a  beauty  ;  and  don't 


AFTER  DINNER.  191 

you  believe,  she  presumed  to  lecture  him  for  slang  on  the  ship, 
and  he  kissed  her ! " 

"  Kissed  whom, — Mrs.  Rogers  ?  "  Julia  asked  in  dismay,  while 
Alice  replied  : 

"  No,  the  daughter,  Gertie  Rogers — the  girl  I  told  you  about 
when  I  came  home  last  night.  She  wears  her  hair  down  her 
back,  and  braids  it  up  in  tags  at  night  and  lets  it  out  in  the 
morning,  to  give  it  that  wavy,  rippling  appearance." 

"No,  she  doesn't!"  Godfrey  exclaimed.  "It's  a  natural 
wave.  I'll  swear  to  that ;  for  I  saw  her  once  brought  on  deck 
early  in  the  morning,  as  sick  as  she  could  be,  and  I  tell  you  it 
was  just  the  same  ;  and  it  is  not  red,  either, — it  is  a  beautiful 
auburn,  with  a  shade  of  gold  in  it ;  and,  as  father  says,  she  has 
the  most  remarkable  face,  for  a  child,  that  I  ever  saw." 

"  Really,  Godfrey,  you  are  quite  her  champion.  You'll  want 
us  to  invite  her  here  next,"  Julia  said,  while  Emma  ventured  to 
remark  : 

"  Anyway,  she  is  beautiful ;  and  do  you  know,  I  think  there 
is  a  look  in  her  face  or  eyes  like  Mrs.  Schuyler.  I  thought  of 
it  to-night  when  we  were  at  dinner." 

"That's  it!"  Godfrey  exclaimed.  "I've  tried  and  tried  to 
think  who  Gertie  was  like.  It's  Edith.  There's  a  resemblance  ; 
only  Gertie  will  be  the  handsomer  of  the  two  when  she  is 
grown." 

"  My  dears,"  Miss  Rossiter  began,  in  the  tone  she  always  as- 
sumed when  displeased  or  grieved  ;  "  it  seems  to  me  your  con- 
versation is  not  very  elevating.  What  possible  interest  can  you 
feel  in  those  people  at  the  cottage  ?  There  can  be  nothing  in 
common  between  us,  even  if  they  have  the  furniture  of  your 
poor  mother's  room.  Godfrey,  I  was  very  much  hurt  when  you 
wrote  Perry  to  take  dear  Emily's  bedstead  and  bureau  down 
there.  Suppose  they  were  old,  they  were  very  dear  to  me,  and 
I  would  gladly  have  had  them  in  my  room.  The  bedstead  is 
much  handsomer  than  the  one  I'm  sleeping  on  now,  and  should 
be  sacred  to  us  because  your  mother  and  my  sister  died  ou 
it." 

Miss  Rossiter' s  handkerchief  was  at  her  eyes,  and  her  voice 


192  AFTER  DINNER. 

trembled  as  she  spoke.  But  Godfrey  did  not  reply  at  once, 
and  when  he  did,  he  said  : 

"  I  did  not  suppose  you'd  care  to  have  that  bedstead  in  your 
room,  or  you  should  have  had  it.  Perhaps  I  can  manage  it 
yet." 

"  No,  no,  I  beg  ;  let  it  be  as  it  is.  I  can  bear  it,"  Miss  Rossi- 
ter  said,  with  the  air  of  a  martyr,  while  all  the  time  she  knew 
that  no  amount  of  money  could  induce  her  to  sleep  on  a  bed 
where  she  had  seen  a  person  die. 

She  would  not  confess  that  she  was  superstitious,  but  she  was, 
and  until  this  moment,  when  the  desire  to  find  fault  with  some- 
thing was  strong  within  her,  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that 
she  wanted  the  furniture  for  her  own  use.  She  merely  did  not 
wish  it  removed  for  her  sister's  successor.  If  it  had  been  good 
enough  for  a  Rossiter  it  surely  was  good  enough  for  Edith  Lyle, 
and  in  addition  to  all  this,  it  hurt  her  to  know  that  common 
people  like  Mrs.  Rogers  and  her  daughter  were  to  stretch  their 
democratic  bodies  on  a  bed  where  Emily's  aristocratic  limbs 
had  once  reposed.  With  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  there 
fell  a  chill  on  the  spirits  of  the  young  people,  who  sat  silent 
until  Godfrey  said,  suddenly  : 

"By  the  way,  girls,  I've  not  told  you  a  word  about  Bob  Mac- 
pherson,  the  artist.  I  meant  to  bring  him  up  with  me,  but  he 
was  so  much  absorbed  in  the  galleries  and  studios  that  he  de- 
cided to  wait  a  little.  You  are  sure  to  like  him." 

"  Where  did  you  pick  him  up  ?  "  Julia  asked  ;  and  Godfrey 
replied  : 

"  In  Rome.  I  wrote  about  it  at  the  time.  He  is  an  artist 
from  pure  love  of  it  rather  than  necessity,  for  he  has  money 
enough  and  comes  of  a  good  Scotch  family." 

"  Didn't  you  write  us  there  was  a  title  in  it  ?  "  Julia  asked. 

"  Yes ;  but  several  removes  from  Bob,  though.  I  fancied 
that  his  father  married  beneath  him,  for  Bob  never  says  a  word 
about  his  friends  on  the  maternal  side.  He  went  to  see  them, 
though,  up  in  Scotland  somewhere,  and  when  he  came  to  Oak- 
wood  he  was  awful  blue  and  silent  for  days,  and  doubtful  about 
coming  to  America,  but  he  got  over  that.  He  wants  to  paint 


AFTER  DINNER.  193 

some  of  our  American  views,  and  surely  he  could  not  select  a 
better  point  on  the  Hudson  than  Hampstead.  I  hope  he  will 
come  soon.  I'm  lost  without  him." 

What  Godfrey  liked  he  liked  heartily,  and  he  went  on  laud- 
ing Robert  Macpherson  until  his  hearers  grew  tired  of  it  and 
asked  him  to  talk  of  something  else. 

Meantime  Edith  had  gone  to  her  room,  where  her  husband 
left  her  while  he  looked  over  the  letters  and  documents  which 
had  been  accumulating  for  a  week  or  more.  As  he  went  out 
Norah  came  in  to  attend  her  mistress. 

"  Get  me  my  dressing-gown  and  brushes,  and  then  you  can 
go.  I  shall  not  need  you  any  more.  I  am  going  to  sit  up 
awhile,"  Edith  said  ;  and  after  her  maid  was  gone  she  arose,  and 
walking  to  the  long  mirror,  stood  looking  at  the  image  it  re- 
vealed of  a  beautiful  lady,  clad  in  heavy  silk,  with  jewels  on 
neck  and  arms  and  in  her  shining  hair. 

And  then  her  thoughts  went  backward  to  the  time,  years  before, 
when  a  strange  vision  had  come  to  her,  of  herself  as  she  was 
now  clad  in  costly  array,  and  the  mistress  of  Schuyler  Hill.  Then 
her  heart  had  been  breaking  with  a  sense  of  desolation  and 
dread;  now  it  was  swelling  with  pride  and  happiness,  even 
though  that  happiness  was  mingled  with  regret  when  she  re- 
membered the  past  and  the  dead  youth  whose  grave  was  just 
across  the  lawn  where  the  monument  was  showing  so  plainly  in 
the  moonlight. 

And  yet  she  was  very  happy,  and  had  been  so  ever  since  her 
feet  touched  the  soil  of  America.  She  had  seen  everything  in 
New  York  which  was  worth  seeing  at  that  season  of  the  year, — • 
had  driven  with  her  husband  and  with  Godfrey  and  with  Ro-bert 
Macpherson  in  the  park,  and  had  been  pointed  out  as  the  hand- 
somest woman  there.  She  had  shopped  at  Arnold's  and  Stew- 
art's and  Tiffany's,  and  lunched  at  Delmonico's,  and  dined  at 
Mr.  Calvert's,  and  stood  on  the  very  spot  her  feet  had  touched 
that  day  when  Abelard  was  made  her  husband.  But  no  one  had 
suspected  her  in  the  least,  and  Mrs.  Calvert,  who  was  a  good- 
natured  little  woman,  had  accepted  her  in  good  faith  as  an  entire 
stranger  to  America  and  its  ways,  and  patronized  her  accordingly, 
9 


194  AFTER  DINNER. 

And  it  was  just  here  that  Edith's  conscience  gave  her  a  great 
deal  of  trouble.  When  the  Calverts  and  her  husband  and  God- 
frey talked  to  her  of  America  as  of  a  place  wholly  new  to  her,  she 
felt  herself  a  miserable  impostor,  and  there  was  at  first  a  dull 
pain  in  her  heart  as  she  thought  of  living  on  and  on  with  this  hid- 
den secret,  as  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  do. 

But  gradually  this  feeling  began  to  give  way,  and  when  at  last 
she  left  New  York  and  started  for  her  country  home,  she  was 
very  happy,  even  though  there  was  underlying  her  happiness  a 
feeling  of  unrest,  a  feverish  desire  to  see  the  cottage  once  more 
and  the  grave  on  the  hill,  where  the  evergreens  were  growing. 

How  different  was  this  arrival  at  Hampstead  from  what  the 
first  had  been.  Then  Abelard  had  stood  upon  the  platform  in 
his  working  dress,  for  he  had  not  had  time  to  change  it,  and 
with  her  mother  she  had  walked  up  the  long  hill  and  round 
through  Mountain  Avenue  to  the  cottage  which  was  to  be 
their  home.  Now  in  place  of  Abelard,  a  liveried  coachman 
stood  waiting  for  her,  while  another  servant  in  livery  handed 
her  to  the  can  iage,  and  both  bowed  respectfully  when  their 
master  said  : 

"  The  air  is  so  pure  and  the  day  so  fine  I  think  we  will  take 
the  longest  route  home,  and  drive  through  Mountain  Avenue." 

That  was  the  road  which  led  straight  by  the  cottage  door,  and 
Edith's  heart  had  beaten  rapidly  as  they  drew  near  the  turn  in 
the  street  which  would  bring  the  cottage  in  view,  and  when  at 
last  she  saw  it,  the  blood  surged  swiftly  through  her  heart,  and 
her  hands  were  clasped  tightly  together  as  she  looked  eagerly 
at  what  had  once  been  her  home.  It  was  not  greatly  changed, 
except  that  it  had  recently  been  repainted,  while  the  creeper, 
which  when  she  lived  there  had  just  commenced  fastening  its 
little  fibrous  fingers  to  the  clapboards,  now  covered  two  sides  of 
it  entirely,  and  made  its  present  name,  Vine  Cottage,  very  ap- 
propriate. 

There  washer  old  room,  and  the  window  was  open  just  as  it 
used  to  be,  and  the  honeysuckle  was  framed  around  it,  and  an 
open  book  was  lying  in  it,  together  with  a  child's  work-box.  It 
had  had  an  occupant  then,  and  who,  she  asked  herself,  forgetting 


AFTER  DINNER.  195 

Mary  Rogers,  until  her  eye  caught  sight  of  Gertie  Westbrooke, 
whose  bouquet  of  daisies  and  forget-me-nots  fell  directly  in  her  lap 
and  seemed  a  welcome  to  her.  Then  she  remembered  having 
heard  from  Godfrey  that  Mrs.  Rogers  was  to  be  his  tenant,  and 
she  knew  this  child  with  the  bright  flowing  hair  and  eager  face 
must  be  the  same  whose  "God  bless  you"  had  been  the  only 
"  God  bless  you  "  given  her  at  her  bridal. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  she  thought,  "  that  this  little  unknown 
child  should  always  cross  my  path  with  flowers  and  blessings 
and  welcomes  ;  "  and  she  turned  her  head  to  look  again  at  the 
two  figures  gazing  after  her. 

If  a  thought  that  the  elder  of  the  two  was  Ettie  Armstrong 
crossed  her  mind,  I  cannot  tell.  Probably  not,  as  she  was  think- 
ing of  the  cottage  and  the  child  and  the  bouquet,  which  she 
put  in  water  as  soon  as  the  meeting  with  her  husband's  family 
was  over,  and  she  was  alone  with  Norah  in  her  room,  and  as 
she  turned  from  the  window  and  saw  them  she  unlocked  a  square 
ebony  box,  which  her  maid,  in  unpacking,  had  taken  from  her 
trunk.  Inside  this  was  another  box,  a  little  old-fashioned  thing 
of  painted  wood,  with  Chinese  figures  on  it.  Abelard  had  bought 
it  for  her  on  Sixth  Avenue,  and  she  had  made  it  a  receptacle 
for  her  first  wedding  ring,  -and  a  lock  of  Abelard's  hair  and  the 
blood-stained  rose  which  had  been  found  next  to  his  heart  and 
brought  her  by  Phebe  Young.  There,  too,  as  a  safe  repository, 
she  had  put  Gertie's  first  bouquet,  with  the  "God  bless  you" 
in  it,  and  there  she  now  put  the  second  one,  her  welcome  to 
Hampstead.  Why  she  put  these  flowers  with  the  sacred 
mementoes  of  Abelard  she  did  not  know,  nor'did  she  question 
her  motive,  but  said  to  herself,  "  I  must  make  that  little  girl's 
acquaintance  ; "  and  then,  donning  her  white  dressing-gown  she 
went  to  the  window,  from  which  a  view  of  the  cottage  could  be 
had,  with  the  moonlight  falling  on  it,  just  as  it  used  to  fall  years 
ago  when  she  was  a  poor  obscure  girl,  with  no  thought  that  she 
should  one  day  stand  as  she  was  standing  now,  the  mistress  of 
Schuyler  Hill,  with  every  possible  luxury  at  her  command. 
And  there,  too,  in  her  old  room  was  the  glimmer  of  a  lamp, 
and  a  little  figure  moved  occasionally  before  the  open  window, 


196  AFTER  DINNER. 

Gertie,  most  probably,  preparing  for  bed,  for  after  a  little  the 
light  disappeared,  and  Edith  found  herself  wondering  if  the 
child  was  kneeling  by  her  bedside  and  saying  her  prayer. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  she  is  praying,"  she  thought,  "and  perhaps 
she  prays  for  me.  I  wish  she  would,  for  unless  she  does  there 
is  no  one  to  pray  for  me  now  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world." 

Oh  !  how  unspeakably  terrible  was  that  thought  :  "  Nobody 
to  pray  for  me  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world." 

She  had  lost  faith  in  her  mother's  prayers,  and,  as  a  conse- 
quence, her  own  heart  and  feelings  had  insensibly  grown  harder. 
But  they  were  softening  now,  and  as  she  stood  looking  into  the 
moonlight,  she  clasped  her  hands  involuntarily,  and  whispered 
to  herself : 

"  Oh,  Father  in  heaven,  help  me  from  this  hour  to  be  a 
better  woman  than  ever  I've  been  before." 

There  was  a  step  behind  her,  and  in  a  moment  her  husband's 
arm  stole  round  her  waist,  and  her  husband's  voice  said,  as 
playfully  as  Colonel  Schuyler  could  say  : 

"  Ah  !  Edith,  my  darling,  moon-gazing,  are  you  ?  What  do 
you  think  of  the  view,  and  your  new  home,  and  can  you  be 
happy  in  it  with  me  ?  " 

Colonel  Schuyler's  love  and  admiration  for  his  wife  had  been 
steadily  increasing  ever  since  the  morning  when  he  first  called 
her  his  own,  and  if  there  had  been  in  his  mind  a  lingering  doubt 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  his  choice,  it  had  been  dispelled  by  the 
sight  of  her  in  her  evening  dress,  sitting  at  his  table,  and  per- 
forming her  duties  so  gracefully  and  in  a  quiet,  matter-of-course 
way,  as  if  she  had*  sat  there  all  her  life,  with  that  array  of  silver, 
and  cut  glass,  and  flowers  before  her. 

How  fair,  and  self-possessed,  and  lady-like  she  was,  and  how 
the  pink  coral  and  the  soft  lace  trimmings  of  her  gray  dress  be- 
came her,  and  how  proud  he  was  of  her,  as  he  watched  her  in 
the  drawing-room,  talking  to  his  daughters  and  Miss  Creighton, 
who,  compared  with  her,  lost  fearfully  in  the  balance  of  beauty, 
and  grace,  and  culture. 

Usually  in  the  olden  days,  when  Emily  trailed  her  silken 
robes  over  the  costly  carpets,  or  reclined  in  her  easy-chair,  or 


AFTER  DINNER.  19? 

reposed  upon  the  couch,  he  had  found  the  atmosphere  of  the 
parlors  a  little  tiresome,  and  had  seized  the  earliest  opportunity 
for  stealing  away  to  his  private  room.  But  now  it  was  different, 
and  only  the  knowing  that  his  letters  must  be  read  had  availed 
to  take  him  from  Edith's  side  ;  and  even  while  he  sat  reading 
them  his  thoughts  were  with  her  continually,  and  hurrying 
through  them  as  soon  as  possible  he  joined  her  as  we  have 
seen.  Pausing  a  moment  in  the  door  he  looked  admiringly  at 
her  as  she  stood  in  the  deep  window  with  her  white  dressing- 
gown  falling  in  graceful  folds  around  her,  and  her  brown  hair 
rippling  over  her  shoulders.  She  was  beautiful,  and  she  was 
his,  and  he  loved  her,  and  fain  would  know  if  she  was  happy, 
so  he  asked  her  the  question,  "  What  do  you  think  of  your  new 
home,  and  can  you  be  happy  in  it  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Howard,  very  happy  ;  "  and  Edith's  hand  stole  into 
his,  and  her  fair  head  drooped  upon  his  shoulder  as  she  con- 
tinued :  "  It  is  a  beautiful  place,  and  I  am  glad  you  brought 
me  to  it,  that  when  you  came  in  just  now  and  surprised  me  as 
you  did,  I  was  thanking  God  for  it,  and  asking  Him  to  make 
me  worthy  of  it.  Howard,  do  you  ever  pray  ?  " 

It  was  a  singular  question,  and  it  sent  the  hot  blood  quickly 
to  Colonel  Schuyler's  face,  while  a  feeling  of  shame  and  remorse 
took  possession  of  him.  Years  ago  he  had  with  other  young 
men  of  his  age  been  confirmed  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  be- 
cause it  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  but  he  had  never  reaped  any 
benefits  from  the  confirmation,  or  given  heed  to  that  without 
which  the  laying  on  of  hands  is  of  no  avail.  When  Emily  died, 
and  he  saw  what  religion  could  do  for  her,  he  set  about  trying 
to  work  out  his  salvation  himself,  and  by  acts  alone.  Every 
feast  and  fast  day  was  for  a  lime  observed,  while  he  gave  large- 
ly to  the  church  and  the  poor,  and  insisted  that  his  daughter 
should  be  confirmed,  and  expressed  a  wish  that  Godfrey  would 
do  so,  too.  But  Godfrey  answered  "No."  He  was  not  going 
to  renounce  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil,  he  said,  when  he 
liked  them  first-rate,  and  should  lie  if  he  said  he  didn't  !  So 
Godfrey  was  given  up,  but  the  colonel  saw  his  daughters  con- 
firmed, and  encouraged  them  in  their  Sunday-school  teaching, 


198  ONE  DAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

and  never  allowed  them  to  read  light  literature  on  Sunday 
if  he  knew  it.  He  asked  a  blessing  at  the  table,  the  shortest 
he  could  find  ;  kept  the  Sabbath  day  strictly,  so  far  as  dinners, 
and  drives,  and  company  were  concerned  :  but  there  was  noth- 
ing real  about  it,  nothing  which  in  the  other  world  would  have 
weighed  a  straw  with  Him  through  whom  alone  we  go  to  God, 
and  when  Edith  startled  him  with  the  question,  "  Do  you  ever 
pray?"  he  answered  her  truthfully,  "  Not  often,  no." 

"Then  let  us  begin  now,"  and  Edith  held  his  hand  in  both 
hers.  "  I've  never  prayed  either  as  I  ought,  but  I've  been 
thinking  about  it,  and  I've  so  much  to  be  thankful  for,  and  need 
help  so  much  to  make  me  what  I  should  be.  Let  us  begin  to- 
gether, to-night." 

He  could  not  resist  her,  and  there  in  the  moonlight,  with 
their  faces  toward  Emily's  grave  and  Abelard  s,  they  knelt  down 
side  by  side  ;  and  though  the  Lord's  Prayer  was  all  they  said, 
it  was  praying  just  the  same,  and  God  heard  and  blessed  them, 
for  He  knew  the  wish  there  was  in  their  hearts,  and  sent  to 
Edith  at  least  the  peace  she  so  desired.  And  so,  with  a  great 
happiness  and  feeling  of  rest  and  quiet  in  her  heart,  she  laid 
her  head  upon  her  pillow,  and  sleep  fell  softly  upon  her  in  her 
new  home  at  Sclmyler  Hill. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

ONE    DAY    IN    HAMPSTEAD. 

JDITH  was  very  sweet  and  beautiful  in  her  white  cam- 
bric dress  when  she  descended  to  the  breakfast-room 
next  morning,  and  took  her  seat  at  the  table.  .Miss 
Rossiter  was  not  present.  She  had  not  slept  at  all  for  thinking 
of  poor  Emily,  she  said,  and  was  suffering  from  the  combined 
effects  of  brandy  and  morphine  and  headache,  and  had  her  cof- 
fee in  her  room,  and  felt  as  if  she  was  resenting  something,  she 
hardly  knew  what,  and  that  if  ever  there  was  a  martyr  she  was 
one  now. 


ONE  DAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  199 

The  young  ladies,  however,  were  all  present,  and  looking  very 
bright  and  cheerful  as  they  bad^  Edith  good-morning.  Alice's 
hair  had  gone  down  a  story  or  two,  and  was  arranged  as  nearly 
as  possible  like  Mrs.  Schuyler's.  Indeed,  Miss  Alice  had  risen 
a  full  hour  earlier  than  her  usual  custom  in  order  to  try  her  tal- 
ent for  hair-dressing,  and  had  succeeded  so  well  that  Godfrey, 
for  whom  the  sacrifice  was  made,  called  her  a  nice  little  puss 
after  all,  and  tolerably  good-looking,  too.  And  Alice  felt  com- 
plimented and  thought  Godfrey  very  handsome,  and  buttered 
his  cakes  for  him  and  seemed  altogether  like  a  woman  of  twenty- 
five,  who  had  been  engaged  for  years. 

"  Well,  girls,  what  are  you  going  to  do  to  pass  the  time 
between  this  and  dinner?  "  Godfrey  asked,  as  he  rose  from  the 
table. 

"  I  must  go  and  see  about  the  sewing  I  gave  to  Rogers,  and 
you  can  go  too  and  see  your  beauty  if  you  like,"  Alice  said,  and 
with  a  comical  look  Godfrey  repeated  : 

"  Rogers, — Rogers  ?     Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  WThy,  your  tenant, — the  woman  who  lives  in  your  cottage. 
She  is  doing  some  work  for  me,"  Alice  replied,  and  Godfrey 
rejoined  : 

"  Oh,  out,  je  vous  comprends.  It's  the  height  of  good  breeding 
to  call  your  inferiors  by  their  last  names ;  so  then,  Creighton, 
let's  go  and  see  Rogers  /"  and  with  a  tremendous  shake  of  his 
pants,  Godfrey  took  his  soft  hat  and  bamboo  cane  from  the  hall 
rack,  and  started  with  Alice  for  the  cottage. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  as  there  was  no  school,  Gertie  was 
working  in  the  garden  with  a  big  sun-hat  tied  under  her  chin, 
her  hair  falling  down  her  back,  her  cheeks  very  red  and  her 
hands  very  much  soiled  with  dirt.  It  was  a  bother  to  wear 
gloves,  she  thought,  and  she  was  tugging  away  at  a  tuft  of  pinks 
when  she  heard  the  gate,  and  looking  up  saw  Alice  and  God- 
frey coming  up  the  walk.  Quickly  dropping  her  pinks  she 
went  forward  to  meet  them,  her  eyes  shining  like  stars  as  she 
said  to  Godfrey  : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Godfrey,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  I  did  not 
know  you  had  come.  Excuse  me  from  shaking  hands.  I  can't, 


200  ONE  DAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

you  see ; "  and  she  held  up  her  little  soiled  hands  which  looked 
white  and  pretty  even  with  the  dirt  upon  them. 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  never  saw  such  assurance.  Why,  she 
acts  as  if  she  was  fully  his  equal,"  Alice  thought,  as  with  great 
dignity  she  asked  : 

"  Is  your  mother  in  ?  I  came  to  see  her  about  the  work  I 
sent  her  last  night." 

Mrs.  Rogers  was  in,  and  while  Miss  Creighton  gave  her  mi- 
nute directions  as  to  the  precise  number  and  size  of  the  tucks 
and  ruffles  and  puffs,  Gertie  entertained  Godfrey  outside  by 
telling  him  all  about  herself  since  coming  to  Hampstead.  She 
was  going  to  school  to  Miss  Armstrong,  whom  she  liked  so 
much,  and  she  was  studying  French,  and  had  caught  up  with 
the  class  already,  and  Miss  Armstrong  said  her  accent  was  very 
pure. 

"  You  see  I  took  lessons  six  months  in  London  of  a  native, 
and  that  makes  a  difference,"  she  said  ;  "  and,  oh,  Mr.  Godfrey, 
do  you  know  where  we  can  rent  a  piano,  I  want  one  so  much 
so  as  to  commence  my  music.  You  know  I  am  to  be  a  teacher 
like  Miss  Armstrong,  and  take  care  of  auntie  when  she  is  old." 

Godfrey  promised  to  make  inquiries  for  a  piano,  and  then 
suddenly  recollecting  himself,  exclaimed  : 

"  Why,  there  is  that  old  one  of  mother's  at  home,  a  rattle-trap 
of  a  thing,  which  all  the  Rossiters  must  have  thrummed  since 
the  flood.  You  can  have  that  if  it  will  answer." 

Gertie  did  not  think  it  would.  She  had  no  fancy  for  a 
"  rattle-trap  which  all  the  dead  Rossiters  had  thrummed  ; "  she 
preferred  an  instrument  which  sounded  decently,  and  she  said 
so,  and  added  : 

"  But  we've  nowhere  to  put  one  yet.  Oh,  Mr.  Godfrey,  what 
made  anybody  send  that  tall  bedstead  and  bureau  down  here, 
where  they  won't  stand  up  in  any  of  our  sleeping-rooms  ?  We 
had  to  put  the  bureau  in  the  parlor,  and  the  bedstead  is  still  in 
the  woodshed.  I  wish  somebody  would  take  it  away.  J  think 
it  is  awful,  so  clumsy,  and  1  fell  over  it  this  morning  and  hurt 
my  foot." 

Godfrey  laughed  aloud,  not  at  Gertie,  but  at  what  Miss  Ros- 


ONE  DAY  IN  IIAMPSTEAD.  201 

siter  would  say  could  she  hear  this  little  plebeian  denounce 
that  bedstead  as  awful  and  clumsy,  and  wish  it  away  even  from 
the  woodshed !  Miss  Rossiter  had  been  greatly  wounded  on 
account  of  that  bedstead  ;  Miss  Rossiter  had  cried  because  it 
was  sent  to  the  cottage  ;  she  had  expressed  a  wish  to  have  it  for 
her  own,  and  her  wish  should  be  gratified. 

"It  was  absurd  to  send  that  tall  furniture  to  these  low  rooms," 
Godfrey  said,  "and  I'll  see  that  it  is  taken  away  ;  to-day,  per- 
haps. Did  it  hurt  your  foot  very  much  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  not  much  ;  it  was  this  one,"  and  Gertie  stuck  up 
her  little  foot,  which  even  in  the  half-worn  boot  looked  so  small 
and  pretty  that  Godfrey  felt  a  desire  to  squeeze  it  in  his 
hand. 

But  Miss  Creighton  was  coming  out,  and  he  straightened  him- 
self up  and  nibbled  quite  unconcernedly  at  the  end  of  his  cane, 
while  Alice  gave  a  few  last  directions  with  regard  to  her  plain 
sewing. 

"  Good-by,  Gertie,"  Godfrey  said.  "  I'll  send  for  the  bed- 
stead and  inquire  about  the  piano,  and  I  have  not  used  a  single 
slang  word  this  morning,  have  I  ?  I  shall  be  a  perfect  gentle- 
man very  soon,  and  then "  he  kissed  his  hand  to  her,  .and 

looking  back  Alice  saw  a  hot  flush  on  the  face  of  the  child, 
who  knew  as  well  as  Godfrey  to  what  he  alluded. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  being  so  familiar  with  such  people  ?" 
Alice  asked.  "  It  cannot  do  them  any  good.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  a  positive  harm.  Why,  Rogers  is  so  airy  now  I  can  hardly 
talk  with  her." 

"Allie,  if  you  want  me  to  like  you,  don't  be  a  fool,"  Godfrey 
said,  sharply.  "  I  don't  wonder  the  woman  was  what  you  call 
airy,  which  means  that  she  stood  for  her  rights.  I  heard  you 
call  her  '  Rogers '  to  her  face.  Now  that  is  simply  absurd  for 
Americans.  In  England  it  is  more  common  and  means  noth- 
ing ;  but  here,  where  there  is  no  aristocracy  of  blood,  and  the 
son  of  the  hod-carrier  may  rise  to  be  President,  it  is  ridiculous, 
and  savors  wonderfully  of  snobbishness  and  parvenuism.  If 
this  woman  has  a  handle  to  her  name,  give  it  to  her,  and  not 
call  her  '  Rogers.'  It  is  low,  and  not  a  bit  ladylike,  and  you, 


202  ONE  DA  Y  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

as  Alice  Creighton,  can  certainly  afford  to  be  a  lady  without 
taking  the  trouble  to  impress  others  with  your  rank." 

Godfrey  was  very  much  in  earnest,  and  Alice  was  crying,  and 
so  the  walk  home  was  a  most  uncomfortable  one,  until  they 
reached  the  entrance  to  the  grounds,  where  Godfrey  stopped, 
and  putting  his  hand  playfully  on  his  companion's  shoulder, 
said  : 

"  Come,  Allie,  don't  let's  quarrel.  You  are  a  nice  little 
thing  and  I  like  you  first-rate,  and  want  you  to  be  a  lady  every- 
where, and  have  a  kind,  courteous  word  for  everybody ;  Mrs. 
Schuyler  has,  and  she " 

"  Mrs.  Schuyler,  indeed  !  As  if  I  am  to  take  her  for  a  pat- 
tern, and  she  a  governess ! "  Alice  said  hotly,  as  she  walked 
rapidly  on  toward  the  house. 

"  Whe-w  ! "  Godfrey  whistled  after  her  as  he  followed  leis- 
urely, wondering  why  girls  need  to  make  such  confounded  fools 
of  themselves,  and  half  wishing  he  had  held  his  tongue  and  not 
tried  to  lecture  Alice. 

As  he  drew  near  the  house  he  saw  John,  the  coachman, 
bringing  up  the  pony  phaeton,  and  asked  who  was  going  out. 

"  Miss  Rossiter  is  going  up  to  the  Ridge  House  after  lunch, 
and  wants  to  drive  herself,"  said  John,  and  Godfrey  thought 
within  himself: 

"  That's  just  the  thing,  and  gives  me  a  chance  to  surprise  her. 
Won't  it  be  a  capital  joke  ?  " 

Entering  the  house  he  went  in  quest  of  his  aunt,  who  was 
dressed  and  feeling  much  better. 

"  Mrs.  Barton  has  asked  me  to  come  over  there  some  day, 
and  I  believe  I'll  go  this  afternoon.  Home  does  not  seem  like 
home  now,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  which  Godfrey  knew  had  ref- 
erence to  the  graceful  figure  walking  on  the  terrace  in  front  of 
the  window,  and  so  did  not  respond  at  once. 

When  he  did  speak,  he  said  : 

"  By  the  way,  auntie,  were  you  really  in  earnest  about  that 
bedstead  ?  " 

"  What  bedstead  ?  "  Miss  Rossiter  asked  quickly,  and  then 
recollecting  herself,  she  added  :  "  Certainly  I  was.  It  hurt  me 


ONE  DAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  203 

cruelly  to  see  it  leave  the  house  when  Emily  thought  so  much 
of  it.  But  then  I  must  get  accustomed  to  things  of  that  kind, 
I  suppose.  New  lords,  new  laws,  and  new  things." 

Her  manner  was  the  manner  of  one  who  has  been  wounded 
and  thwarted  at  every  point,  and  Go.dfrey  was  strengthened  in 
his  resolve,  and  within  half  an  hour  after  she  had  driven  away 
in  her  pony  phaeton  he  had  interviewed  both  Mrs.  Tiffe  and 
Perry,  and  was  riding  with  John  in  the  long  democratic  wagon 
down  the  road  toward  the  cottage.  Mrs.  Rogers  and  Gertie 
were  both  in  the  garden  this  time,  but  when  Godfrey  explained 
his  errand,  the  former,  who  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  cumbrous 
piece  of  furniture,  went  in  with  John,  while  Godfrey  remained 
cptside  with  Gertie. 

"  You  must  be  very  fond  of  gardening,"  he  said,  and  Gertie 
replied  : 

"  Yes,  I  am  ;  I  like  it  ever  so  much.  Have  you  seen  the  grave 
since  you  came  home?  " 

"  Grave!     Whose  grave?"  Godfrey  asked,  and  she  replied  : 

"  Mr.  Lyle's,  the  man  who  saved  your  life.  Miss  Armstrong 
told  me  all  about  it,  and  I  felt  so  glad  you  were  not  killed,  and 
so  sorry  for  him  and  the  young  girl  who  liked  him.  She  used 
to  live  here  in  this  very  house,  and  Miss  Armstrong  promised 
her,  when  she  went  away,  to  keep  the  grave  up  nice  till  she 
came  back,  and  for  a  while  she  did,  but  the  girl  didn't  come, 
and  Miss  Armstrong  got  to  forgetting  it,  you  know,  and  when 
she  told  me  about  it,  it  was  just  awful  with  weeds  and  tangled 
grass.  But  it  looks  like  a  flower-bed  now.  I  thought  maybe 
you  would  be  glad." 

Her  bright,  eager  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  for  his  approval, 
which  he  gave  unqualifiedly. 

"  He  was  glad,  and  to-morrow,  after  dinner,  he  would  go  and 
see  it,"  he  said  ;  and  then  as  his  services  were  needed  for  the 
heavy  bureau,  he  lifted  his  hat  to  Gertie,  and  walked  away. 

.  "  For  pity's  sake,  what  are  you  doing  ?  "  Julia  asked  of  God- 
frey, when,  after  her  nap  and  toilet,  she  came  from  her  room 
and  found  the  rear  of  the  hall  blockaded  with  furniture,  and 


204  ONE  DAY  IN  I1AMPSTEAD. 

mattress,  and  bed-clothes,  and  Godfrey,  very  red  in  the  face  as 
he  assisted  Mrs.  Tiffe,  who  was  also  anxious  and  excited. 

"Cooking  some  'potted  sprats'  I  guess,  though  I'm  not 
quite  sure,"  was  Godfrey's  reply ;  and  when  Julia,  who  was  not 
very  conversant  with  Mrs.  Opie,  demanded  what  he  meant,  he 
explained  that  as  Aunt  Christine  was  so  grieved  about  the 
things  sent  to  the  cottage,  and  expressed  herself  as  so  desirous 
to  have  them  back,  especially  the  bedstead,  he  had  decided  to 
give  her  a  pleasant  surprise  on  her  return  that  night  from  the 
Ridge.  Won't  she  be  delighted  though  !  "  And  Godfrey's  face 
was  very  expressive  as  he  tugged  away  at  the  heavy  furniture. 
"  There,  she  is  sure  to  like  that,"  he  said,  when  at  last  his  work 
was  finished,  and  the  old  fashioned,  massive  bedstead  stood  in 
the  place  the  lighter  one  of  oak  had  occupied,  while  the  bureau 
was  pushed  into  a  corner  as  the  only  available  spot. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  so  well  satisfied,"  Julia  said ;  "  but  I  doubt 
if  you  get  any  thanks  for  your  trouble.  Auntie  will  never  sleep 
a  night  on  that  bedstead  ;  she  is  the  biggest  coward  in  the  world." 

"Then  I'll  take  it  down  Monday.  Anyway,  she  cannot  say 
I  have  not  tried  to  please  her,"  was  Godfrey's  reply,  as  he 
walked  away,  whistling  cheerily,  and  wondering  why  women 
were  so  queer,  and  always  went  back  on  a  fellow  when  he  was 
doing  his  best. 

Meantime  Alice  had  had  her  pet  out  in  a  good  cry,  which 
made  her  nose  very  red,  and  did  not  add  at  all  to  the  beauty 
of  her  face  when  she  came  down  to  dinner,  gracious  and  smil- 
ing, and  ready  to  forgive  Godfrey,  if  he  wished  to  be  forgiven. 
But  he  gave  no  sign  that  he  did,  though  he  was  very  polite  to 
her,  and  peeled  her  orange,  and  gave  her  his  bunch  of  Malaga 
grapes,  because  he  knew  she  had  a  weakness  for  them,  and 
asked  her  slyly  how  she  had  burned  her  nose  so  badly,  and 
suggested  a  very  small  poultice  of  flaxseed  when  she  went  to 
bed  at  night !  And  Alice  laughed,  and  thought  him  altogether 
charming  and  delightful. 

"  I  mean  to  show  him  that  I  am  improving  in  what  he  calls 
snobbishness,"  she  thought,  and  after  dinner  was  over,  she  said 
to  him  in  her  most  insinuating  voice  : 


ONE  DAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  205 

"Godfrey,  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Rogers  again.  I've  changed 
my  mind  about  the  tucks.  I  heard  you  say  you  were  going  to 
the  village,  and  would  you  mind  walking  round  that  way  for  me 
when  you  come  home  ?  " 

I  "  Certainly  not.  I  am  pleased  to  go  to  Mrs.  Rogers'  at  any 
time,"  he  answered,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  Mrs.,  which 
showed  that  he  had  taken  note  of  the  change. 

"  Pleased  to  go  there  at  any  time  !  I  do  believe  it,  and  I 
wonder  if  he  can  be  so  much  interested  in  that  child,"  Alice 
thought,  as  she  walked  slowly  toward  the  cottage. 

She  was  not  jealous.  Gertie  was  too  young  and  too  obscure 
for  that ;  but  she  was  annoyed  with  Godfrey's  evident  admira- 
tion for  the  "yellow-haired  girl."  And  still,  if  she  would  please 
him  as  she  really  wished  to  do,  she  must  be  interested,  too,  and 
after  she  was  through  with  Mrs.  Rogers  she  went  out  to  Gertie, 
and,  wishing  to  say  something  to  her,  asked  abruptly  if  she  had 
ever  been  confirmed  ?  Alice  always  felt  more  seriously  inclined 
on  Saturday  afternoons  than  on  any  other  week  day.  It  was 
near  to  Sunday,  and  became  one  who  taught  in  the  Mission 
school,  and  gave  all  sorts  of  good  advice  to  sundry  forlorn,  ragged 
little  wretches,  among  whom  Godfrey  Schuyler  and  Schuyler 
Godfrey  and  Alice  Creighton  Vandeusenhisen  figured  conspic- 
uously. Alice  would  never  have  taught  in  the  regular  Sunday- 
school,  where  she  was  liable  to  come  in  contact  with  persons 
who  might  lay  claim  to  her  notice  socially.  She  preferred  the 
Mission  school,  where  she  was  looked  upon  as  something  far 
above  the  common  order  of  mortals,  and  here  she  was  very 
zealous,  and  very  devout,  and  very  good,  and  sometimes  took 
Alice  Creighton  Vandeusenhisen  in  her  lap,  and  let  Tommie 
Trotter  stroke  her  silk  dress  with  his  dirty  hands,  and  once  she 
actually  kissed  a  little  girl  who  brought  her  a  bouquet.  To 
these  children,  and  such  as  these,  she  and  the  Misses  Schuyler, 
who  taught  there  also,  were  kind  of  divinities,  as  was  proven  by 
an  incident  which  occurred  just  before  the  arrival  of  Edith  at 
the  Hill.  There  was  a  new  rector  at  St.  Luke's, — a  young  man 
fresh  from  old  Trinity  in  New  York, — and  he  went  one  Sunday 
to  catechise  the  little  ones  at  the  Mission. 


206  ONE  DAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

"  Now  boys,"  he  said  to  the  row  of  eager  faces  confronting 
him  so  eagerly,  "  speak  up  loud  and  tell  me  who  made  the 
world?" 

Instantly  Tommie  Trotter,  with  the  three  Vandeusenhisens, 
screamed  lustily  : 

"  Miss  Alice  Creighton,  sir  ! "  and  were  answered  from  a 
rival  crowd  : 

"  Miss  Julia  Schuyler,  sir ! "  while  one  faint  little  voice 
brought  up-the  rear  with  : 

"I  tell  you,  Tom  Trotter,  she  didn't.  'Twas  Miss  Emma, 
sir !  " 

After  that  Alice  and  Julia  esteemed  themselves  as  saints,  and 
were  more  zealous  than  ever  to  gather  in  any  stray  lambs  which 
had  no  particular  fold.  Hence  the  reason  for  Alice's  attack  on 
Gertie,  whom  she  startled  with  the  question  : 

"  Have  you  ever  been  confirmed?  " 

Gertie  had  not,  and  did  not  particularly  care  to  be  just  yet, 
she  said  ;  and  Alice  was  as  much  shocked  and  surprised  as  if 
the  child  had  been  convicted  of  a  crime. 

"  Not  wish  to  be  confirmed  and  be  good  !  How  shocking  !  " 
she  exclaimed. 

And  Gertie  replied  : 

"  I  did  not  say  I  did  not  wish  to  be  good,  for  I  do  ;  but  I 
don't  want  to  be  confirmed  until  I  am  older  and  understand  it 
better." 

"Who  is  your  teacher  in  Sunday-school  ?"  Alice  asked  next, 
with  a  good  deal  of  severity. 

"  I  don't  go  to  Sunday-school.  I  get  my  lesson  at  home,  and 
recite  it  with  the  Collect  and  the  Commandments  to  Auntie," 
Gertie  said,  while  Miss  Creighton  grew  more  and  more  ama/ed. 

"  Not  go  to  Sunday-school !  I  did  not  suppose  there  was 
any  one  in  this  town  so  heathenish  as  that !  Child,  you  must 
go,  and,  if  you  do  not  care  to  join  the  school  at  church,  come 
to  the  Mission  to-morrow  at  four  o'clock.  You  will  find  me 
there,  and  the  Misses  Schuyler  and  several  other  ladies.  Will 
you  come  ?  " 

Gertie  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  asked  : 


ONE  DAY  IN  II AMI  STEAD.  207 

"  Has  Mr.  Godfrey  a  class  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Godfrey  a  class  !  Certainly  not.  Can't  you  go  unless 
he  is  there  ?  "  Alice  said,  sharply,  conscious  of  a  sudden  feeling, 
which,  had  Gertie  been  her  equal,  would  have  been  jealousy. 

Ere  Gertie  could  reply,  there  was  the  sound  of  a  low  chuckle 
in  the  direction  of  the  street,  and,  looking  round,  Alice  saw 
Godfrey  leaning  over  the  gate  with  a  most  comical  expression 
on  his  face. 

He  had  heard  nearly  all  the  conversation,  and  said  to  Alice  : 

"  Beating  up  recruits  for  the  Mission  school,  are  you,  Alice  ? 
Don't  you  go  there,  Gertie.  You  are  too  big  and  too  good- 
looking,  and  the  room  smells  awful.  She  got  me  down  there  once, 
and  made  me  hear  a  class,  and  the  little  imps  swapped  jack- 
knives,  and  fought  each  other,  and  called  me  'old  Schuyler' 
behind  my  back,  and  wondered  what  business  I  had  trying  to 
teach  the  Commandments.  No,  Gertie,  go  to  the  other  school  if 
you  must  go  somewhere,  and  I  suppose  you  must,  or  lose  caste 
with  this  young  lady.  Why,  she's  as  zealous  as  the  Pope  him- 
self with  regard  to  her  church  and  her  school.  But  come,  Allie, 
it  is  time  to  go." 

And,  opening  the  gate,  he  held  it,  while  with  a  barely  civil 
nod  to  Gertie,  Miss  Creighton  passed  out  into  the  street,  and, 
taking  Godfrey's  offered  arm,  walked  away,  leaving  Gertie  to 
look  after  her  and  wonder  if  Mr.  Godfrey  liked  her  and  meant 
to  marry  her  some  day,  and  if  it  was  wrong  not  to  be  confirmed 
when  she  was  only  twelve  years  old,  and  heathenish  not  to  go 
to  Sunday-school  when  she  did  not  wish  to,  and  could  say  her 
lesson  at  home. 

Miss  Rossiter  had  spent  a  very  pleasant  afternoon  with  her 
friend  Mrs.  Barton,  at  the  Ridge  House,  and  enjoyed  herself 
famously  in  talking  of  the  bride,  whom  she  never  could  like, 
she  said,  even  though  she  must  confess  that  her  personal  ap- 
pearance was  in  her  favor. 

"  That  was  all  a  hoax  about  her  being  lame  and  old.  God- 
frey wrote  it  to  tease  us,"  she  said.  "  She  cannot  be  more 
than  thirty-five,  and  really  has  some  claim  to  good  looks,  while 


208  OXE  DAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

her  manners  are  not  bad.  But  she  is  an  adventuress, — a  poor 
governess,  and  nothing  more  ;  and  she  has  taken  dear  Emily's 
place,  and  everything  must  give  way  to  her,  and  .our  pleasant 
home  is  broken  up  forever."  And  Miss  Rossiter  cried  a  little 
as  she  told  of  the  furniture,  which  had  been  sent  from  the 
house  as  not  good  enough  for  "  my  lady,"  when  I  would  have 
liked  it  so  much  for  the  memories  clustering  about  it, — the  very 
bed  poor  Emily  died  on,  and  I  saw  her,  too  ! " 

.Miss  Rossiter  sobbed  aloud,  while  Mrs.  Barton  tried  to  com- 
fort her,  and  said  it  was  hard,  and  that,  if  it  would  be  any  com- 
fort to  her  dear  friend,  she  would  not  call  upon  the  intruder,  or 
let  her  daughter  Rosamond  call  either. 

That  would  be  some  consolation,  for  Mrs.  Grey  Barton,  of 
the  Ridge  House,  was  a  sort  of  queen  in  the  neighborhood 
since  Lady  Emily  died,  and  a  slight  from  her  was  sure  to  be 
felt ;  so  Miss  Rossiter  allowed  herself  to  be  comforted,  and, 
after  dinner,  drove  herself  home  in  the  soft,  autumnal  twilight. 

Edith  was  standing  on  the  piazza  when  she  came  up  the 
steps,  and  a>ked  if  she  had  spent  a  pleasant  day. 

"  Yes,  it  is  always  pleasant  at  the  Ridge.  Mrs.  Barton  is 
considered  the  first  lady  in  the  town,"  Miss  Rossiter  replied, 
as  she  swept  proudly  up  the  stairs,  feeling  that  by  enlightening 
Edith  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Barton's  standing  she  was  preparing 
her  to  feel  the  slight  about  to  be  offered  her. 

It  was  not  light  enough  in  her  room  for  her  to  see  anything 
distinctly  when  she  entered  it,  and  she  laid  aside  her  hat  and 
shawl  and  turned  up  the  gas  before  she  observed  the  change. 
Then  she  started  and  looked  again,  and  rubbed  her  eyes,  and 
wondered  if  she  were  threatened  with  softening  of  the  brain,  as 
she  had  sometimes  feared,  and  saw  things  which  existed  only  in 
her  imagination.  No,  there  was  no  fancy  here.  The  airy, 
graceful  bedstead  of  oak  and  black  walnut,  which  she  had  left 
there  that  morning,  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  loomed  the  huge, 
old-fashioned  thing,  on  which  she  would  not  sleep  for  the  world. 
For  a  moment  she  stood,  wondering  what  she  should  do. 

"Hallo,  auntie,  what's  the  matter?  Don't  you  like  it? 
You  are  white  as  a  sheet,"  came  cheerily  from  Godfrey,  who 


THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  209 

was  sauntering  down  the  hall  "You  see  I  thought  I'd  surprise 
you,  and  I  worked  like  a  beaver  to  get  it  set  up.  It's  all  right, 
I  hope." 

"  Yes,  Godfrey,  yes,"  Miss  Rossiter  gasped.  "  It  was  kind 
in  you,  but — but " 

"  But  what,  auntie  ?  It  is  not  a  potted  sprat,  I  hope.  You 
told  me  that  story,  you  know,  and  illustrated  it,  too,  when  I 
didn't  want  to  go  to  school,  and  said  I  was  sick,  and  you  made 
me  lie  in  bed  all  day  and  take  those  nasty  squills.  Don't  you 
really  want  it  in  there  ?  " 

"No,  Godfrey.  I  thought  I  did,  but  I  guess  I  don't.  I'm 
silly,  and  nervous,  and  all  unstrung  with  trouble,  and  I  can  see 
my  poor  sister  so  plain.  You  know  she  died  on  it.  I  should  not 
sleep  a  wink,  and  I — I — oh,  Godfrey, — oh,  Godfrey, — take  it 
away,  do,  please,  there  is  a  good  boy  ! " 

She  was  crying  a  little  and  trembling  a  great  deal,  and  as  God- 
frey never  could  resist  tears,  he  promised  readily,  and  passing  his 
arm  playfully  around  her  waist,  drew  her  into  the  room,  and  said  : 

"All  right,  let's  go  at  it  now.  You  ring  the  bell  and  I'll  pull 
it  to  pieces." 

It  did  not  take  long  to  undo  the  work  of  the  morning,  and 
the  obnoxious  bedstead,  which  nobody  seemed  to  want,  was  soon 
stored  away  in  the  attic,  while,  with  the  help  of  a  little  morphine 
and  an  electric  shock  heavier  than  usual,  Miss  Rossiter  slept 
tolerably  well  that  night,  and  dreamed  of  eating  all  the  "  potted 
sprats"  served  up  in  Mrs.  Opie's  "  white  lies." 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE    FIRST    SUNDAY    IN    HAMPSTEAD. 

|HERE  was  a  great  crowd  at  church  that  first  Sunday 
after  Mrs.  Schuyler's  arrival  in  town.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  brightness  of  the  day,  and  perhaps  it  was  an  un- 
confessed  desire  to  see  the  bride,  of  whose  personal  appearance 
so  many  conflicting  rumors  were  afloat.  I  was  early  at  church 


2io  THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

myself,  and  felt  nervous  and  excited  when  I  knew  that  the  Schuy- 
ler  carriage  had  stopped  at  the  door,  and  that  I  should  soon 
see  again  the  beautiful  woman  who  had  interested  me  so  greatly. 
The  Morrises,  and  Beechers,  and  Montgomeries,  and  Bartons 
from  the  Ridge,  and  indeed  all  the  great  families  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, were  already  in  their  seats,  and  had  said  their  prayers, 
and  found  their  places,  and  arranged  themselves  comfortably 
and  becomingly  when  the  Schuylers  came  in,  the  colonel  and 
his  bride,  with  Godfrey  and  the  young  ladies  following  after. 
Edith's  dress  was  very  plain  and  simple,  a  rich  black  silk,  with 
some  kind  of  a  gauzy  white  scarf  around  her  shoulders  and  a 
white  chip  bonnet,  with  lace  and  blue  ribbons  ;  and  yet  she  was 
very  elegant,  as  with  eyes  cast  down  and  a  flush  on  her  cheek 
she  walked  up  the  aisle  and  took  her  seat  in  the  Schuyler  pew. 
There  was  perfect  silence  during  the  moment  she  was  on  her 
knees,  but  when  she  rose  and  threw  a  swift,  curious  glance  about 
her  we  recovered  ourselves  and  were  ready  for  the  "  dearly 
beloved,"  which  I  doubt  if  Edith  heard,  though  she  rose  to  her 
feet  and  let  our  village  dressmaker,  who  sat  behind,  see  just 
how  the  back  of  her  skirt  was  trimmed. 

Edith  was  not  thinking  of  the  solemn  service  in  which  she 
joined  involuntarily,  nor  of  the  many  eyes  turned  upon  her,  but 
of  the  Sundays  years  ago,  when  she  was  a  worshipper  in  that 
same  house,  though  not  in  that  pew,  crimson  cushioned  and 
velvet  carpeted,  but  in  the  humbler  seat  farther  back,  where 
now  by  some  chance  little  Gertie  sat,  her  blue  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  bride,  and  her  face  wearing  an  expression  of  perfect  content, 
as  if  she  understood  the  general  impression  the  lady  had 
made. 

Miss  Rossiter  was  not  there.  She  had  told  Mrs.  Barton  not  to 
expect  her.  It  would  be  too  great  a  strain  upon  her  nerves  to 
see  that  doll  in  Emily's  place,  with  everybody  looking  at  her, 
and  some  admiring  her,  as  no  doubt  they  would.  She  had 
called  her  "  a  doll,"  and  Mrs.  Barton  was  prepared  for  a  piuk- 
and-white  expressionless  creature,  with  some  claims  to  good 
looks,  and  an  unmistakably  lower-class  air  about  her,  but  she 
was  not  prepared  for  this  superb  beauty,  who  took  her  breath 


THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  211 

away,  and  made  her  mentally  revoke  her  promise  not  to  call  or 
notice  her  in  any  way.  It  would  not  do  to  slight  that  woman, 
who  would  lead  Hampstead,  and  New  York,  too,  if  she  tried, 
and  Mrs.  Barton  did  not  propose  to  do  it.  She  would  rather 
run  the  risk  of  offending  Miss  Rossiter  ;  and  when  at  last  church 
was  out,  and  they  were  waiting  for  the  carriages  outside  the 
door,  she  managed  to  get  introduced,  and  presented  her  daughter 
Rosamond,  who,  for  the  remainder  of  the  day,  raved  about  the 
beauty  and  grace  and  style  of  Mrs.  Schuyler.  Little  Gertie 
half  stopped  as  if  to  claim  acquaintance,  but  Mary  Rogers  led 
her  away,  and  I  saw  the  child  look  back  several  times  at  the 
lady,  to  whom  she  had  not  yet  spoken,  and  whom  she  was  to 
meet  first  at  the  grave  of  Abelard  Lyle. 

Godfrey  had  said  to  her,  "  I  must  go  to  the  grave  to-morrow 
after  dinner,"  and  as  she  wished  to  water  the  flowers  and  root 
up  any  weed  which  might  have  come  to  sight  since  her  last  visit, 
she  resolved  to  be  there  before  him  and  enjoy  his  surprise. 
She  knew  dinner  at  Schuyler  Hill  was  served  at  two  o'clock  on 
Sundays,  and  as  Godfrey  was  not  likely  to  get  out  before  three 
she  had  plenty  of  time,  and  after  her  own  early  dinner  started 
for  the  cemetery. 

There  was  not  much  to  be  done,  for  the  grave  was  like  a 
pretty  flower-bed,  and  after  pulling  a  weed  or  two,  and  digging 
around  a  heliotrope,  she  sat  down  to  rest  at  the  foot  of  the 
monument. 

Gertie  was  rather  tired,  and  the  day  was  warm  and  Godfrey 
long  in  coming,  and  at  last  she  fell  asleep  with  her  head  against 
the  marble,  and  did  not  hear  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the 
grassy  path  which  led  across  the  lawn  to  the  yard. 

Some  one  was  coming,  but  it  was  not  Godfrey.  He  was  sit- 
ting with  Alice  upon  the  balcony,  and  asking  her  if  she  expected 
a  new  pupil  at  the  Mission  that  afternoon,  and  if  she'd  like  him 
to  go  with  her.  Colonel  Schuyler  was  taking  his  Sunday  nap 
in  his  easy-chair,  and  thus  left  to  herself  Edith  had  resolved  upon 
a  visit  to  the  grave,  toward  which  she  had  looked  so  many  times 
since  her  arrival  at  Schuyler  Hill.  Only  once  before  had  she 
been  in  that  yard,  and  that  when  she  planted  the  rosebush  which 


212  THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  IN  If  AMPS  TE  AD. 

now  twined  about  the  monument,  and  made  a  screen  from  the 
sun  for  the  little  girl  sleeping  so  sweetly  there. 

How  beautiful  she  was,  and  Edith  paused  a  moment  to  look 
at  her,  wondering  who  she  was,  and  then  concluding  from  tho 
hair  that  it  must  be  Gertie  Westbrooke,  who  had  thrown  her  the 
bouquet.  Entering  the  yard  she  went  close  to  the  grave,  mar- 
velling to  find  it  in  such  perfect  order,  and  feeling  a  sense  of 
suffocation  when  she  saw  the  vase  she  had  given  Ettie  Arm- 
strong full  of  freshly-gathered  flowers,  which  seemed  to  speak  to 
her  so  plainly  from  the  dead.  Who  had  done  this,  as  if  in  wel- 
come to  her  ?  Was  there  any  one  in  Hampstead  who  suspected 
her  identity  ? 

"  Impossible,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  down  upon  the 
iron  chair  which  stood  near  the  grave.  "  It  is  very  strange,  and 
this  child  here  too  asleep.  What  a  beautiful  face  she  has,  and 
who  is  it  she  resembles  ?  "  Edith  thought,  as  she  marked  the 
regular  features,  the  transparent  complexion,  the  long  silken 
lashes  and  the  glossy  auburn  hair  of  the  unconscious  child. 

How  plump  and  pretty  were  the  hands  which  lay,  one  on  her 
lap,  and  the  other  on  the  green  sward  beside  her,  where  it  had 
fallen  in  the  abandonment  of  sleep.  How  small,  too,  and  per- 
fectly formed  were  the  little  feet,  and  Edith  wondered  to  see 
them  encased  in  such  dainty  boots,  just  as  she  wondered  at  the 
whole  appearance  of  the  child  who  interested  and  fascinated  her 
so  much. 

"  I  wish  she  would  awake.  I'd  like  to  talk  with  her,"  she 
thought,  and  as  if  the  wish  had  communicated  itself  to  Gertie, 
the  long  lashes  lifted  slowly,  disclosing  a  pair  of  eyes  so  bright 
and  blue  and  lovely  in  their  expression,  that  Edith  half  started, 
and  thought,  with  a  pang,  of  eyes  she  had  seen  years  ago,  but 
which  now  were  closed  forever  and  laid  away  beneath  the  turf 
at  her  feet. 

Gertie  was  quite  awake  now,  and  a  sweet  smile  broke  over 
her  face  and  showed  itself  in  her  very  eyes  when  she  saw  who 
was  with  her. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Schuyler,"  she  said,  advancing  at  once  and  with- 
out the  least  timidity  toward  the  lady.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Schuyler, 


THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  213 

it's  you.  I  was  waiting  for  Godfrey,  and  went  to  sleep  and  had 
such  a  nice  dream  of  mother,  who  was  alive,  I  thought,  and 
father  too." 

She  was  standing  close  to  Edith,  who,  reaching  out  her  hand, 
took  Gertie's  in  it,  and  forgetting  that  Mrs.  Rogers  was  not  the 
child's  own  mother,  said,  in  some  surprise : 

"Your  mother  is  not  dead  !  " 

"  Yes,  she  is,"  Gertie  replied.  "  She  died  when  I  was  a 
little  tiny  girl,  and  father  married  again  and  Auntie  Rogers 
took  me  away,  and  then  father  died,  too,  in  Italy.  Is  not  Mr. 
Godfrey  coming  to  see  the  grave  ?  he  said  he  would  yesterday." 

She  was  more  intent  on  Godfrey  than  on  her  parentage,  and, 
at  her  mention  of  the  grave,  Edith  asked,  quickly  : 

"  What  grave  is  Godfrey  coming  to  see  ?  " 

"  This  one,"  and  Gertie  pointed  to  the  flower-bed  where  the 
vase  was  standing.  "  You  see,"  she  continued,  "  this  is  Mr. 
Lyle's  grave, — Mr.  James  A.  Lyle,  who  died  in  saving  Mr.  God- 
frey's life.  He  was  working  on  the  tower  of  the  house  at  Schuy- 
ler  Hill,  and  Mr.  Godfrey  was  a  little  boy,  and  climbed  up  and 
slipped,  and  Mr.  Lyle  caught  him,  and  threw  him  where  he  was 
safe,  but  fell  himself  down — down — down — to  the  very  earth, 
where  he  was  smashed  all  to  bits,  and  they  took  him  up  as  dead 
as  dead  could  be  !  " 

Gertie  was  very  eloquent  and  earnest,  and  emphasized  her 
"  down — down — down  "  with  a  wave  of  her  hand  in  the  air  and 
a  stamp  of  her  foot  upon  the  ground,  while  Edith,  who  could 
not  speak  for  the  fingers  at  her  throat,  sat  gazing  at  her,  mo- 
tionless and  completely  fascinated  by  her  face,  and  manner, 
and  voice,  which  last  had  in  it  the  ring  of  something  familiar, — 
something  heard  years  ago,  when  she  was  young  and  listened 
to  the  bell  in  the  old  church-tower  ringing  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing. When  she  could  speak,  she  asked : 

"  How  did  you  learn  all  this,  and  who  keeps  the  grave  so 
nicely  ?  " 

"I  do ;  for  you  see  Miss  Armstrong, — that's  my  teacher,  she 
was  at  church  to-day,  and  plays  the  organ, — she  came  here  with 
me  one  time,  and,  when  I  asked  about  the  graves,  she  told  me 


214  THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  LV  HAMPSTEAD. 

whose  they  were,— that  is,  the  newest  ones.  That  great,  tall 
stone  is  the  first  Mrs.  Schuyler  ;  but  you  don't  care  for  that. 
She  was  not  half  as  pretty  as  you,  they  say,  and  so  he  had  to 
get  her  this  grand  stone,  which  cost  two  or  three  thousand  dol- 
lars. I  dote  on  graves,  and  like  to  hear  about  them,  and  Miss 
Armstrong  told  me  about  this  poor  boy,  or  man  he  must  have 
been,  for  he  was  a  young  girl's  beau,  I  guess." 

"  A  what  ?  "  Edith  gasped.     And  Gertie  went  on  : 

"  There  was  a  beautiful  young  girl  here  then,  from  England, 
— Heloise  Fordham, — and  she  liked  Mr.  Lyle,  and  he  liked 
her,  and  she  cried  so  when  he  was  killed,  and  had  a  dreadful 
headache  ;  and  when  she  went  away,  she  made  Miss  Armstrong 
promise  to  keep  up  the  grave  till  she  came  back  to  see 
it,  and  to  water  the  rosebush  which  she  set  out,  and  keep  the 
vase  full  of  flowers  in  the  summer  time.  And  Miss  Arm- 
strong did  water  the  rose, — and  for  a  while  she  tended  the  grave, 
hoping  to  hear  from  the  girl,  or  that  she  would  come ;  but  she 
never  did,  and  so  at  last  she  grew  tired  like  and  careless,  and, 
when  she  told  me  about  it  that  day,  it  was  a  sight  to  see  for 
weeds.  I  like  to  dig  and  work  in  the  dirt,  and  so  I  made  it 
nice,  thinking  Godfrey  would  be  pleased ;  and  then,  too,  do 
you  know,  I  do  it  part  for  the  girl,  Heloise.  who  lived  in  the 
very  house  where  I  live  now,  and  slept  in  my  room.  And  the 
poor  man  was  carried  there,  and  his  coffin  and  funeral  were  in 
the  great  room  ;  but  I  never  told  auntie,  because  she  is  afraid 
of  ghosts.  I  am  not,  though,  and  1  like  to  think  about  him 
and  her,  and  to  make  believe  she  is  there  with  me,  crying  by 
the  window  for  the  lover  dead  down  stairs ;  and  once, — it's 
funny,  but  it  was  the  night  you  came, — I  lay  awake  ever  so 
long,  and  fancied  she  was  there,  and,  before  I  knew  it,  said 
right  out  aloud,  '  Poor  Heloise,  Gertie  is  sorry  for  you.'  " 

"  Oh,  child,  child,  hush,  hush  !  "  Edith  cried,  as  she  drew 
Gertie  to  her  and  pressed  her  close  to  her  side. 

"  Why,  is  it  wicked  ?  Was  it  naughty  to  make  believe  she 
was  there  and  talk  to  her  ?  "  Gertie  asked,  wonderingly  ;  and 
Edith  replied  : 

"  No,  no,  not  that ;  talk  to  her,  pity  her,  pray  for  her  all  you 


THE  FIRS7    SUNDAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  215 

please  ;  and  tell  me,  has  nothing  been  heard  of  her  since  she 
went  away  ?  " 

"Nothing,  I  guess;  and  Miss  Armstrong  said  maybe  she's 
dead  or  married.  I  do  not  like  to  think  her  dead.  I'd  rather 
believe  her  married  and  alive.  Don't  you  suppose  she  is  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  she  is  married  ;  and  I  know  she  would  be  so 
grateful  to  you  and  love  you  so  much  if  she  knew  what  care 
you  take  of  the  grave."  And  obeying  an  impulse  she  could 
not  resist,  Edith  smoothed  the  bright  hair  back  from  the  fair 
white  forehead,  and  looking  straight  into  the  clear,  blue  eyes, 
kissed  the  child,  whose  lips  kissed  back  again  and  sent  a  strange 
tremor  through  every  nerve  of  Edith's  body. 

"  Had  you  heard  of  this  grave  before  ?  "  Gertie  asked,  puz- 
zled a  little  at  the  lady's  manner  ;  and  Edith  replied  : 

"  Yes  ;  Godfrey  told  me  of  it  in  England,  and  Colonel  Schuy- 
ler  too,  and  on  our  bridal  tour  we  went  to  see  Mr.  Lyle's 
mother  ; "  and  in  a  low  voice  Edith  told  the  listening  child  of 
the  white-haired  old  woman  knitting  in  the  sunshine  by  the  door 
of  that  thatched  cottage  among  the  heather  hills.  "  I  promised 
to  write  to  her,"  she  added,  "  and  tell  her  about  the  grave,  and 
perhaps  you  will  press  me  some  flowers  which  grew  here  and 
I'll  send  them  in  the  letter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'd  like  to  do  that,"  Gertie  said  ;  and  in  a  moment  her 
nimble  fingers  had  gathered  the  few  flowers  still  in  blossom,  and 
which  were  destined  for  that  home  beyond  the  sea  where  Abe- 
lard  once  lived. 

"  I  pity  that  old  lady  so  much,  and  like  her  too  ;  she  seems 
so  much  like  my  grandma,  though  I  don't  know  where  she  is. 
Auntie  never  told  me." 

"  You  have  one,  then  ?  "  Edith  asked,  and  Gertie  told  her  all 
she  knew  of  herself,  not  forgetting  the  forty  pounds  a  year  which 
was  to  pay  for  her  education,  for  she  meant  to  be  a  teacher  like 
JVliss  Armstrong,  and  play  the  organ,  maybe,  when  Miss  Arm- 
strong was  too  old. 

How  interested  Edith  was  in  this  little  girl  who  puzzled,  and 
confused,  and  bewildered  her  so  ;  they  were  getting  acquainted 
with  each  other  rapidly,  when  a  man's  step  sounded  in  the  dis- 


2l6  THE  FIRST  SUNDAY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

tance,  -and  turning  quickly,  while  a  look  of  eager  joy  lighted  up 
her  face,  Gertie  cried  : 

"  It  is  Mr.  Godfrey,  I  guess." 

But  Mr.  Godfrey  was  still  doing  duty  at  Alice's  side,  and  the 
newcomer  was  Robert  Macpherson,  who  was  coming  directly 
toward  the  cemetery,  which  he  reached  before  he  discovered  its 
occupants.  Then,  with  a  start  and  a  blush,  as  if  detected  in 
something  he  would  hide,  he  lifted  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Schuyler  and 
went  forward  to  greet  her. 

"  And  here  is  Gertie  too,"  he  said,  as  he  offered  her  his  hand  ; 
then  turning  again  to  Edith  he  explained  that  he  had  just  come 
from  New  York  in  the  train  which  passed  a  few  moments  ago. 

"  Came  from  New  York  to-day  !  Why,  Mr.  Macpherson,  it's 
Sunday!"  Gertie  exclaimed,  while  Edith  smiled,  and  Mr.  Mac- 
pherson looked  amused  as  he  replied  to  the  child,  who  believed 
in  the  fourth  commandment. 

"  Yes,  Gertie,  I  know  it  is  Sunday,  and  that  I  should  have 
waited  until  to-morrow,  inasmuch  as  there  was  nothing  more 
pressing  than  homesickness,  for  to  tell  the  truth  I  was  homesick 
in  the  city,  and  after  church  this  morning, — there  came  over  me 
such  a  longing  for  the  country  and  a  familiar  face  that  I  resolv- 
ed to  take  the  first  train  to  Hampstead.  That  is  why  I  am 
here  on  Sunday,  little  Puritan,"  and  he  smiled  good-humoredly 
at  Gertie,  thinking  what  a  wonderful  face  she  had,  and  how  like 
she  was  to  the  sister  sleeping  under  the  English  skies,  and  then 
he  glanced  at  the  well-kept  grave  and  at  the  monument  and  the 
name  upon  it,  "James  A.  Lyle,"  and  said  aloud,  in  an  absent 
kind  of  way : 

"  Born  in  Alnwick." 

"  He  saved  Godfrey's  life,  you  know,  and  lost  his  own," 
Gertie  said,  while  Mr.  Macpherson  bowed  and  answered  : 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  but  gave  no  sign  that  when  on  reaching  the 
brow  of  the  hill  on  his  way  from  the  station  he  saw  the  white 
headstone  gleaming  in  the  distance,  he  came  that  way  to  see 
for  himself  this  very  grave  of  Abelard  Lyle,  who  was  born  in 
Alnwick. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  the  house  ?     Godfrey  will  be  glad  to  know 


COMPANY  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL.  2l^ 

you  arc  here,"  Edith  said,  and  as  she  spoke  something 'in  the 
expression  of  her  face  made  Robert  glance  quickly  from  her 
to  Gertie,  who  was  tying  on  her  bonnet. 

"  They  certainly  are  alike,"  he  thought.  "  They  would  do 
splendidly  in  a  picture  as  '  Les  Sxurs,'  "  and  then,  as  Edith 
was  ready,  he  walked  by  her  side  with  Gertie  in  attendance, 
until  they  reached  the  place  where  their  paths  diverged,  and 
Gertie  said  "good-by,"  while  Edith  and  Robert  went  leisurely 
toward  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

COMPANY    AT    SCHUYLER    HILL. 

|N  the  course  of  two  or  three  weeks  nearly  everybody 
of  any  social  standing  in  Hampstead  called  upon  the 
bride.  Mrs.  Barton  and  her  daughter  Rosamond  from 
the  Ridge  drove  over  at  a  very  early  day,  much  to  the  discom- 
fiture of  Miss  Rossiter,  who  had  told  her  nieces  in  confidence 
that  "  Mrs.  Barton  had  no  intention  of  calling-  upon  a  gover- 
ness,'' that  "Mrs.  Schuyler  need  not  expect  much  attention  from 
the  beau  monde."  Great,  then,  was  her  surprise  when  she  went 
down  to  meet  them ;  and  greeted  them  a  little  coldly  even  while 
affecting  to  appropriate  their  call  to  herself.  But  neither  Mrs. 
Barton  nor  Rosamond  seemed  to  notice  her  perturbation,  and 
both  were  delighted  with  Mrs.  Schuyler,  who  looked  and  ap- 
peared as  if  all  her  life  had  been  passed  amid  just  such  surround- 
ings as  these  at  Schuyler  Hill. 

Miss  Rossiter  saw  this,  and  thought  best  to  change  her  tac- 
tics altogether ;  and  when,  as  she  accompanied  her  friend  to 
the  door,  the  latter  said  to  her,  "  I  find  your  sister-in-law  very 
charming,"  she  replied  : 

"  Yes,  I  am  glad  you  like  her ;  and  it  was  so  kind  in  you  to 
call.  I  appreciate  it,  I  assure  you." 

And   this  was   the   ground   she   constantly  took.     Whoever 


2i8  COMPA.VY  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL. 

called  came  expressly  for  her  sake  and  the  sake  of  the  family, 
rather  than  from  any  desire  to  be  polite  to  the  bride. 

"  The  Schtiylers  are  so  highly  respected,  and  sister  Emily  was 
such  a  favorite  with  everybody  that  you  must  expect  attention, 
of  course,"  she  would  say  to  Edith,  who  smiled  quietly,  and  un- 
derstood what  was  meant  quite  as  well  as  if  it  had  been  put  in 
plainer  wortls. 

Miss  Rossiter  did  not  like  her,  but  had  she  been  asked  a  rea- 
son for  her  dislike  she  could  not  have  given  one  or  brought  a 
single  accusation  against  Edith,  except  that  she  was  not  to  the 
purple  born,  and  was  there  in  Emily's  place.  That  was  all,  and 
that  was  enough.  She  had  declared  war  against  her,  and  she 
meant  to  carry  it  out. 

But  Edith  understood  her,  and  parried  all  her  little  mean 
thrusts,  and,  when  questioned  before  the  young  ladies  of  her 
life  in  England  and  the  people  she  knew,  answered  that  she 
knew  nobody  except  the  families  where  she  had  taught,  and 
spoke  unhesitatingly  of  her  mother,  who  took  lodgers  to  eke 
out  her  slender  income ;  and,  when  Miss  Rossiter  suggested  to 
her  that  it  might  be  as  well  not  to  speak  of  her  mother's 
lodgers,  and  offered  her  advice  on  certain  points  of  etiquette, 
teliuig  her  it  was  better  not  to  laugh  quite  so  much,  and  that 
such  and  such  dresses  were  not  just  the  thing  for  certain  occa- 
sions, Edith  answered  good  humoredly,  and  thanked  Miss  Ros- 
siter for  her  advice  ;  but  laughed  just  the  same,  and  shocked 
the  spinster  every  day  at  dinner  with  the  sight  of  her  fair, 
creamy  arms  and  neck,  and  devoutly  wished  the  lady  would  re- 
turn to  New  York,  and  leave  her  in  peace.  But  Miss  Rossiter 
was  in  no  haste  to  do  this  ;  she  was  averse  to  exertion  of  any 
kind,  and  found  her  brother-in  law's  home  so  much  to  her  taste 
and  the  bride  so  much  better  than  she  had  feared,  that  she  had 
decided  to  remain  in  Hampstead  until  after  the  grand  party, 
which  was  to  be  given  at  Schuyler  Hill,  and  for  which  great 
preparations  were  making,  both  in  the  kitchen,  where  Mrs.  Tifte 
was  in  the  full  tide  of  cake  and  cream  and  jellv,  and  in  the 
town,  where  everybody  with  any  claim  to  society  expected  an 
invitation, 


COMPANY  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL.  219 

Mine  came  to  the  school-room,  and  I  read  it  after  school, 
with  Gertie  standing  at  my  side  and  looking  over  my  shoulder. 

c'  Oh,  that's  the  party  I've  heard  about  !  They  are  to  have  a 
band  and  lights  in  the  trees,  and  colored  waiters  in  white 
gloves,  and  viverything.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  go  !  Do  you 
think  they  will  invite  children  like  me  ?  "  Gertie  said,  excitedly. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  there  could  be  any  reason  why 
she  should  not  be  invited  except  that  she  was  a  child,  and  I  did 
not  enlighten  her,  but  said  she  was  probably  too  young. 

The  next  morning  her  face  was  very  bright  as  she  told  me 
what  she  had  heard  from  Norah,  who  was  down  to  see  her 
mother.  Mrs.  Rogers  was  to  assist  in  the  evening,  and  Gertie 
was  to  go,  too,  and  perhaps  see  the  dancing  from  some  post  of 
observation,  while  Norah  had  promised  to  ask  Mrs.  Schuyler  if 
she  might  come  in  and  see  her  after  she  was  dressed,  and  be- 
fore she  went  down  stairs. 

"  And  then,"  Gertie  added,  "  next  week  they  are  to  have  the 
Church  Sociable,  and  everybody  goes  to  that,  you  know,  and 
auntie  is  to  do  up  my  muslin  dress,  and  I  shall  dance,  maybe 
with  Mr.  Godfrey.  Oh,  I  wish  it  was  now  ! " 

She  was  quite  as  wild  over  the  Church  Sociable  as  the 
Hampstead  ladies  were  over  the  party,  which  came  off  the 
loth  of  October,  and  was  a  grand  affair.  The  night  was  soft 
and  warm  as  June,  and  though  there  was  no  moon  the  lanterns 
in  the  trees  and  on  the  pedestals  lighted  up  the  grounds  suffi- 
ciently to  show  their  beauty,  and  make  it  pleasant  to  walk 
about  in  them.  The  house  itself  was  ablaze  with  light,  and 
brilliant  with  rare  and  costly  ilowers,  while  the  band  played 
several  sweet  airs  before  the  guests  began  to  arrive.  In  her 
room  upstairs  Edith  stood  dressed  in  her  bridal  robes,  and 
looking  more  beautiful  than  she  had  upon  her  wedding  day,  for 
her  cheeks  were  rounder  now,  with  a  soft,  delicate  pink  showing 
through  the  dazzling  white,  while  her  eyes  had  in  them  a  new 
brightness,  and  shone  like  the  diamonds  Norah  was  clasping  on 
her  neck  and  arms. 

"  Oh,  how  lovely  you  are,"  Norah  said,  when  the  last  touch 
was  given  to  her  mistress's  toilet,  and  she  stood  back  to  admire 


220  COMPANY  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL. 

her.  Then  after  a  moment's  hesitancy,  she  added :  "  There  is  a 
little  girl  down-stairs  dying  to  see  you,  ma'am,  in  your  party 
dress,  Gertie  Westbrooke.  My  cousin  is  here  assisting,  you 
know,  and  brought  the  child.  Would  you  mind  her  coming  up 
the  back  way  just  to  look  at  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  Edith  replied  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  Gertie 
came  in,  her  face  glowing  and  sparkling  with  delight  as  she  saw 
the  beautiful  woman  standing  before  the  long  mirror,  decked 
in  satin  and  lace  and  diamonds,  her  golden  brown  hair  curled 
as  she  used  to  wear  it  in  her  girlhood,  and  falling  over  a  comb 
behind. 

"  Oh,  my  lady  !  oh,  Mrs.  Schuyler,  you  ought  to  be  the  queen, 
only  you  are  a  thousand  times  handsomer  than  she  ! "  Gertie 
cried,  clasping  her  hands  together,  while  tears  started  to  her 
eyes  and  dropped  from  her  eyelashes. 

"Why,  child,  what  is  the  matter?  What  makes  you  cry?" 
Edith  asked,  and  Gertie  replied  : 

"  I  don't  know,  I  always  cry  when  I  see  a  beautiful  picture 
or  hear  the  grand  music  and  the  band  playing  outside,  and  the 
house  and  grounds  lighted  up,  and  you  so  glorious.  I  can't 
help  it.  Oh,  if  I  only  were  rich,  and  could  go  with  the  people 
below ! " 

"  Poor  child,"  Edith  said  softly,  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
wavy  hair  of  the  little  "girl.  "  You  might  not  be  as  happy  as 
you  are  now,  and  then  if  you  were  rich  you  are  too  young  to 
attend  a  party  of  this  kind." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Gertie  answered  ;  "  but  I  like  fine  dresses, 
and  things,  and  people,  and  I  do  wish  I  might  some  day  be 
dressed  just  like  you,  and  stand  where  you  do  with  mv  train  so 
long  behind  me,  and  I  waiting  for  somebody." 

"Gertie,"  the  lady  said,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "the 
guests  are  to  remove  their  wraps  in  the  large  room  opposite, 
and  by  sitting  in  that  chair  and  turning  the  gas  down  you  can 
see  them  as  they  pass.  Would  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  so  much,"  was  the  eager  reply,  and  just  then  the 
colonel  came  for  his  bride  to  lead  her  to  the  drawing-room. 

He  saw  Gertie,  but  thought  she  was  there  to  render  some 


COMPANY  AT  SCHUYLER  HILL.  221 

service  to  his  wife  and  paid  no  attention  to  her.  The  moment 
he  was  gone  Gertie  turned  down  the  gas,  and  ensconcing  her- 
self in  the  large  easy-chair  waited  the  coming  of  the  guests. 
And  while  she  waited  Godfrey  looked  in,  and  seeing  the  little 
figure  in  the  chair,  walked  up  to  it  and  said  : 

"  Who's  there  ?     Gertie,  as  I  live  !     What  are  you  doing?  " 

"  Mrs.  Schuyler  said  I  might  sit  here  and  see  the  ladies  pass 
in  their  gay  dresses,  so  I'm  making  believe  I'm  one  of  them, 
and  at  the  party,  too.  Oh  if  it  was  only  real,  and  I  could 
dance  the  Lancers  !  " 

"  Gertie,  I  say,  how  are  you  dressed  ?  "  Godfrey  asked,  turn- 
ing up  the  gas  and  inspecting  the  child.  "  No,  that  won't  do, 
— not  the  '  wedding  garments,'  you  know.  Gertie,  I  tell  you 
what,  we  are  to  have  the  church  sociable  next  week,  and  that  is 
a  heap  nicer  than  a  party.  Come,  then,  and  I'll  dance  your 
shoes  off  with  you.  There's  a  ring, — I  must  go.  WThen  you 
get  tired  of  making  believe  here,  go  round  to  the  north  stair- 
case, and  you  can  look  down  into  the  hall  and  dining-room. 
Good-by." 

He  was  gone  just  as  the  first  arrivals  came  up  the  stairs  and 
into  the  room  opposite  where  Gertie  sat.  And  Gertie  watched 
them  eagerly  and  heard  all  they  said,  and  mentally  commented 
upon  their  attire,  and  compared  them  with  Edith  ;  and  then, 
when  they  were  all  gone,  crept  cautiously  round  to  the  north 
staircase  where  Godfrey  had  said  she  could  see  the  dancing. 

The  party  was  a  great  success,  with  no  drawback  whatever, 
except  the  fact  that  Tom  Barton  from  the  Ridge  drank  too 
much  champagne  and  became  noisy  and  uproarious,  and  when 
by  chance  he  stumbled  upon  Gertie,  who  was  making  her  way 
to  the  kitchen  through  a  side  passage,  he  told  her  :  "  Ze  was  ze 
pressiest  girl  there,  by  gorrie,"  and  emphasized  his  compliment 
with  a  kiss.  F"or  this  audacity  Godfrey,  who  happened  to  be  in 
sight,  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  thrust  him  headlong  out  of 
doors,  bidding  him  stay  there  till  he  could  behave. 

Edith  was  pronounced  perfectly  charming  by  every  one,  and 
no  young  girl  received  as  much  flattery  and  attention  as  the 
beautiful  mistress  of  the  festivities,  who  bore  herself  like  a  prin- 


222  THE    CHURCH  SOCIABLE. 

cess,  and  received  the  commendations  of  those  about  her  with 
a  sweet  graciousness  of  manner  which  won  every  heart.  She 
was  not  fond  of  dancing  and  only  went  on  the  floor  twice,  once 
with  Godfrey  and  once  with  Robert  Macpherson,  who  was  quite 
a  lion  with  the  girls,  especially  as  he  was  new  and  a  foreigner. 

"The  Macphersons  are  very  rich,  and  there's  a  title  in  the 
family ;  he  only  paints  and  sketches  because  he  likes  it  ;  he  is 
not  obliged  to  do  it,"  Julia  explained  to  Rosamond  Barton,  who 
was  questioning  his  antecedents  and  pronouncing  him  "splen- 
did and  distingue,  with  a  face  like  a  poet." 

It  was  very  late  when  the  party  broke  up,  and  it  was  later 
still  when  Mrs.  Rogers'  duties  were  over  and  she  led  the  tired, 
sleepy  Gertie  by  the  hand  through  the  morning  moonlight  to 
the  cottage  by  the  bridge.  Gertie  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
party,  and  had  envied  the  young  ladies  whom  Godfrey  whirled 
in  the  dance,  and  wished  herself  one  of  them.  But  there  had 
been  a  comfort  in  knowing  that  her  turn  would  come  next  week 
at  the  sociable,  to  which  everybody  was  invited  on  the  follow- 
ing Sunday,  when  the  Rev.  Mr.  Marks,  the  new  Rector  at  St. 
Luke's,  gave  notice  that  the  first  church  sociable  of  the  season 
would  be  at  Schuyler  Hill  on  Thursday  evening,  adding  that  as 
the  proceeds  were  to  be  appropriated  for  a  new  melodeon,  which 
was  greatly  needed  at  the  Mission  School,  a  full  attendance  was 
desired. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE    CHURCH   SOCIABLE. 

[HE  young  ladies  had  enjoyed  the  party  thoroughly,  but 
the  church  sociable  was  another  thing,  and  the  blams 
of  it  was  charged  entirely  to  Edith,  who  was  really  nut 
in  fault. 

Mr.  Marks,  the  rector,  was  very  zealous  in  his  work,  and  one 
morning,  while  calling  upon  Edith,  he  broached  the  subject  of 
the  sociable.  They  were  needing  so  much  money,  he  said, 


THE  CHURCH  SOCIABLE.  223 

and  there  was  no  house  in  the  parish  which  would  accommo- 
N  date  so  many  people  or  attract  so  great  a  crowd  as  thj  house 
at  Schuyler  Hil!,  and  he  wished  Mrs.  Schuyler  would  consent 
to  have  the  sociable  for  once. 

Edith  knew  nothing  at  all  of  church  sociables,  or  in  what  dis- 
favor they  were  held  in  the  house,  and  answered  :  "  Certainly  ; 
I  am  quite  willing  if  my  husband  is.  You  can  ask  him."  Julia, 
who  was  just  entering  the  room,  overheard  the  proposition,  and 
went  at  once  with  the  news  to  her  aunt  and  Alice. 

"  The  idea  of  a  Mite  Society  here,"  she  said,  with  everybody 
coming,  and  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen  the  first  to  ring  the  bell,  and 
Mrs.  Thockmorton's  hired  girl  the  second.  It  is  preposterous. 
But  father  will  never  allow  it,  I  am  sure.  Mr.  Marks  is  to  ask 
him,  you  know  ?  " 

"  Don't  flatter  yourself,  my  dear,  or  count  upon  what  your 
father  may  or  may  not  do,"  Miss  Rossiter  said,  with  all  the 
scorn  her  thin  lips  could  express.  "  New  wives  make  new 
laws,  and  your  father  is  a  mere  tool  in  that  woman's  hands. 
Once  he  had  a  will  of  his  own,  now  he  has  none,  save  that  of 
her,  whose  low-born  tastes  will  lead  her  to  consort  with  such 
people  as  a  Mite  Society  will  bring." 

Miss  Rossiter  was  very  bitter,  and  something  of  her  poison 
was  communicated  to  her  niece,  who  was  very  distant  toward 
Edith  at  lunch,  and  on  the  plea  of  headache  declined  to  drive 
with  her  as  she  had  intended  doing.  So  Emma  went  instead, 
leaving  her  sister  and  aunt  to  talk  Edith  tip  and  wonder  if  Colo- 
nel Schuyler  would  consent.  Julia  was  sure  he  would  not, 
and  yet  she  felt  glad  when  she  saw  him  riding  up  the  avenue, 
inasmuch  as  she  would  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him 
first.  But  the  rector  had  seen  the  colonel  in  town,  and  told  him 
of  his  call  upon  Edith,  and  her  willingness  to  have  the  society, 
provided  her  husband  did  not  object. 

"  Yes,  certainly, — a  society,— a  sociable, — I — I — I  am  not 
quite  certain  I  understand  just  what  that  is.  I  do  not  think  I 
ever  went  to  one,"  the  colonel  said,  spitting  two  or  three  times 
and  looking  a  little  disturbed. 

Mr.   Marks  explained  as  well  as  he  could,  and  expatiated 


224  THE   CHURCH  SOCIABLE. 

largely  upon  the  good  which  resulted  from  these  promiscuous 
assemblies,  where  all  met  upon  a  level,  as  Christian  people 
should. 

"  It  gives  the  poor  and  neglected  a  chance  to  get  acquainted," 
he  said,  "  and  thus  promotes  good  feelings  and  religious  growth 
generally." 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  the  colonel  said,  abstractedly,  as  he  beat 
the  tip  of  his  boot  with  his  riding-whip.  "  I  don't  think  there's 
ever  been  a  thing  like  it  at  Schuyler  Hill,  but  have  it  by  all 
means,  if  Mrs.  Schuyler  signified  the  least  desire  for  it." 

The  colonel's  chestnut  mare  was  pawing  the  turf,  impatient 
to  be  off,  and  bowing  stiffly  to  the  rector,  Col.  Schuyler 
mounted  her  and  galloped  toward  home,  where  he  was  met  by 
Julia  and  Miss  Rossiter,  who  plunged  at  once  into  the  obnox- 
ious society,  which  they  trusted  he  would  veto.  Miss  Rossiter 
was  the  principal  speaker,  and  she  said  that  Mrs.  Schuyler  could 
not  understand  or  appreciate  her  position  as  his  wife,  if  she 
wished  such  a  mixture  of  people  to  come  there,  trampling  on 
their  velvet  carpets  and  spilling  cream  on  their  handsome  fur- 
niture. 

"And,  Howard,  you  may  just  as  well  be  master  of  your  own 
house  first  as  last,  unless  you  wish  an  entire  new  element  intro- 
duced into  your  social  relations." 

The  colonel  himself  had  been  a  little  disturbed  about  the 
society,  not  knowing  exactly  whether  it  were  an  fait,  but  some- 
thing in  Miss  Rossiter's  manner  angered  him,  as  it  implied  re- 
proach to  Edith,  and  he  roused  at  once  in  her  defence  and  said 
he  had  seen  Mr.  Marks,  who  alone  was  responsible  if  there  was 
anything  wrong  in  the  affair;  that  he  had  given  his  consent  and 
should  not  withdraw  it,  but  should  expect  his  daughters  to  do 
whatever  was  necessary  to  make  the  gathering  a  success.  That 
settled  it;  and  Miss  Rossiter  took  one  of  her  headaches  and  re- 
tired to  her  room  and  did  not  appear  at  dinner,  where  with  a 
stern  glance  at  Julia,  whose  face  was  cloudy  and  dark,  the 
colonel  said  to  his  wife  : 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  I  met  Mr.  Marks,  who  persuaded  me  into 
having  the  Sewing  Society,  or  something  of  that  kind,  with 


THE   CHURCH  SOCIABLE.  225 

sponge-cake  and  cream,  at  our  house  next  week,  provided  you 
do  not  object." 

"  Not  at  all ;  I  told  him  I  did  not,"  Edith  replied,  and  the 
colonel  continued  : 

"  Then,  my  daughter,"  turning  to  Julia,  "  see  that  Mrs.  Tiffe 
has  everything  in  readiness." 

Julia  bowed,  while  Godfrey  dropped  his  fork  and  almost  hur- 
rahed in  his  surprise.  He  knew  what  a  Church  Sociable  with 
sponge-cake  and  cream  meant ;  he  had  attended  more  than  one 
in  Hampstead,  and  danced  with  every  girl  there,  and  every  for- 
lorn, neglected  woman  who  wanted  a  partner,  but  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  bringing  the  mixed  assemblage  across  that  aristo- 
cratic threshold,  and  lo  it  was  coming  without  his  aid.  and  he 
was  delighted,  and  he  invited  every  man,  woman  and  child  in 
town,  and  came  to  me  with  a  beaming  face  and  told  me  the 
good  news,  and  asked  if  I  would  play  the  piano  for  them,  and 
said  he  would  get  two  or  three  musicians  to  accompany  me  and 
have  a  "  smashing  time." 

"  It  will  be  enough  sight  nicer  than  the  party  was,"  he  said  to 
his  sisters,  when,  on  Sunday  after  the  notice  had  been  given 
out,  they  were  discussing  it  and  expressing  their  contempt  for 
the  whole  thing.  "Folks  will  enjoy  themselves  at  a  sociable  ; 
they  always  do,  and  they  don't  get  drunk  either,  as  that  puppy 
Tom  Barton  did,  nor  stay  all  night ;  they  go  home  at  a  Christian 
hour.  I  know ;  I've  been  to  them  and  it  is  great  fun,  I  tell  you. 
I  mean  to  dance  with  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen,  too,  if  she  is  here. 
You  ought  to  see  Widow  Barringer  and  Nat.  Allen.  They  take 
all  the  steps,  and  do  not  mince  along  as  some  girls  I  know  of 
They  dance,  I  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  Godfrey,  how  can  you  talk  and  act  so  low,"  Julia  said ; 
but  before  Godfrey  could  reply  Edith  joined  the  group,  which 
in  consequence  was  soon  after  broken  up. 

The  Sociable  was  much  talked  of  in  Hampstead,  and  every- 
body went,  from  Rosamond  Barton  and  her  brother  Tom,  down 
to  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen,  who  entered  through  the  kitchen; 
leading  the  twins,  Godfrey  Schuyler  and  Schuyler  Godfrey. 
"They  were  so  anxious  to  come  to  the  doin's  and  get  some 


2?.6  THE   CHURCH  SOCIABLE. 

cream,"  she  said,  "  that  she  concluded  to  bring  'em,  seein'  it 
w.is  free  and  she  had  as  good  right  there  as  the  next  one." 

With  the  most  intense  disgust,  bristling  in  her  cap  ribbons 
and  every  fold  of  her  stiff  silk  dress,  Mrs.  Tiffe  bowed  and 
said  : 

"  You  better  sit  here,  until  the  ladies  are  ready  to  receive 
you.  Aliss  Creighton  and  Miss  Schuyler  are  not  yet  dressed." 

Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen  took  this  advice  very  meekly  and  sat 
with  a  boy  each  side  of  her,  looking  curiously  around  the 
kitchen,  until  the  door-bell  rang  and  she  heard  the  voice  of 
Mr.  Marks,  the  Rector.  Then  her  dignity  rose,  and  the  kitchen 
could  content  her  no  longer.  Her  minister  had  come,  and 
where  he  was  she  had  a  right  to  be,  and  seizing  her  twins  she 
started  for  the  parlor,  where  with  the  fun  fairly  leaping  from 
his  eyes  and  shining  all  over  his  face,  Godfrey  received  her  and 
presented  her  to  Edith.  But  the  splendors  of  the  drawing-room 
were  loo  much  for  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen,  and  after  a  low 
courtesy  and  a  whisper  to  the  twins  "  to  make  their  manners  to 
the  lady,"  the  poor  woman  sank  abashed  into  a  corner,  where 
she  found  a  silken  couch  on  which  she  ensconced  herself  with 
her  twins,  and  bidding  them  keep  still  if  they  did  not  want  to 
be  skinned  alive,  she  prepared  to  enjoy  herself  by  watching  the 
arrivals. 

The  bell  rang  constantly  now,  and  with  each  ring  Julia,  who 
was  still  in  her  room,  stole  to  the  bannister  and  looking  over  to 
see  who  had  come,  ran  back  to  report  to  Alice  and  Miss  Rossi- 
ter.  This  last  lady  had  a  headache,  and  her  nerves  would  not 
allow  her  to  mingle  in  the  promiscuous  crowd  assembling  below, 
the  Goths  and  Vandals  who  had  never  set  foot  in  that  house 
before. 

"What  would  Emily  say?"  she  groaned,  as  Julia  reported 
one  after  another,  the  Widow  Barringer,  and  Nat.  Allen,  and 
Mrs.  Peter  Clafflin  with  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen  and  the  twins. 

Poor  Miss  Rossiter  leaned  back  despairingly  on  her  pillows, 
and  wondered  "who  would  come  next."  It  was  Tom  and 
Rosamond  Barton,  and  the  latter  came  straight  to  Miss  Rossi- 
ter's  room,  and  said  "it  was  such  fun,  and  she  meant  to  coax 


THE    CHURCH  SOCIABLE.  22^ 

mamma  to  have  it,  and  she  wished  Miss  Rossiter  could  go  down 
and  enjoy  it !  " 

Julia,  Alice  and  Rosamond  descended  the  stairs  together  and 
were  met  at  the  foot  by  Godfrey,  who  said  : 

"  Now,  girls,  cheek  by  jowl  with  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,  and 
Peterkin  Vandeusenhisen.  Look,  Alice  !  there  he  is  casting 
sheep's  eyes  at  you,  and  gotten  up  stunningly,  too." 

And  truly  Peterkin  was  stunning  in  his  yellow  vest  and  flame- 
colored  cravat,  which  was  tied  in  a  most  wonderful  bow,  and 
he  stood  blushing  and  smiling  and  watching  Alice  Creighton, 
and  wondering  if  she  would  let  him  dance  with  her.  The  house 
was  full  by  this  time,  and  a  more  promiscuous  crowd  was  rarely 
ever  seen  in  a  gentleman's  parlors,  or  a  better  behaved,  con- 
sidering everything. 

"Really,  my  dear,  it  is  very  remarkable  how  well  they  con- 
duct themselves,"  the  colonel  said  to  Edith,  as  he  stood  at  her 
side  and  looked  at  the  people  who  neither  laughed  nor  talked 
noisily,  nor  jostled  each  other,  but  spoke  together  in  low,  sub- 
dued tones  as  they  moved  about  and  quietly  inspected  the  hand- 
some rooms  and  furniture. 

Dancing  commenced  at  eight  in  the  large  breakfast-room, 
which  had  been  cleared  for  the  occasion.  Tom  Barton,  who 
when  himself  was  very  gentlemanly  and  agreeable,  was  the  first 
upon  the  floor  with  Emma  as  his  partner,  while  Robert  Mac- 
pherson  followed  next  with  Julia,  and  Godfrey  with  Rosamond. 

"  Come,  boys,  fill  up,  fill  up,"  Godfrey  cried,  to  the  row  of 
bashful  youths,  looking  longingly  at  the  row  of  expectant  girls. 
"We  want  some  one  to  fill  our  set.  Here,  Peterkin,  get  your 
girl  and  join  us." 

"  I  dassent  for  fear  she  won't,"  Peter  said,  blushing  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair. 

Godfrey  knew  who  she  was,  and  answered  the  timid  swain  : 

"  Nonsense  !  You  are  too  faint-hearted.  Yes,  she  will ;  try 
her,  and  hurry  up  ! " 

Thus  encouraged,  Peter  made  his  way  to  Alice,  and  making 
the  bow  he  had  practised  at  intervals  for  a  week  in  anticipation 
of  this  very  event,  said,  with  a  face  as  red  as  his  necktie : 


228  THE    CHURCH  SOCIABLE. 

"  Miss  Creighton,  will  you  please  to  be — so  good — as  to — 
dance  this  time  with  me  ?  Mr.  Godfrey  said  how  you  would." 

With  a  look  of  ineffable  scorn,  Alice  replied  : 

"  Thank  you,  sir.     I  do  not  dance  to-night." 

Her  eyes  and  voice  expressed  her  contempt,  and  Peter  felt 
it,  and  utterly  crestfallen  and  abashed,  went  back  to  Godfrey 
and  said  : 

"I  tole  you  she  wouldn't,  and  she  won't." 

"  Oh,  bother ;  but  never  mind,  there's, — but  no." 

And  Godfrey  stopped  short  in  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

Gertie  had  paid  her  respects  to  Edith,  and  then,  attracted  by 
the  music,  made  her  way  to  the  breakfast-room  and  stood  within 
the  door. 

Godfrey's  first  thought  when  he  saw  her  was  to  give  her  to 
Peterkin  for  a  partner,  but  some  undefined  feeling  forced  the 
impulse  back.  He  could  see  proud  Alice  Creighton  dance  with 
Peter  and  think  it  rare  fun,  but  not  this  beautiful  child,  who 
might  thus  be  classed  with  the  lout.  Her  partners  must  be  the 
best  in  the  room,  Robert  Macpherson,  and  himself,  and  young 
Ransom,  the  judge's  son,  who  fortunately  came  that  way  just 
then  looking  for  a  lady. 

"  Here,  Will.  We  want  you  here.  Let  me  introduce  you 
to  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room,"  Godfrey  said  ;  and  the  next 
moment  Gertie  stood  upon  the  floor  opposite  Robert  and  Julia 
Schuyler. 

How  pretty  and  graceful  she  was,  and  how  well  she  went 
through  with  the  dance,  never  making  the  slightest  mistake, 
but  seeming  to  carry  her  tall  partner  along  by  the  airy  ease  of 
her  motions. 

"  1  say,  Schuyler,  who  is  that  princess  in  disguise  I  have  just 
danced  with  ?  "  young  Ransom  said  to  Godfrey,  after  he  had 
led  Gertie  to  a  seat. 

"  She  is  a  princess  in  disguise,  I  do  believe.  Isn't  she  pretty 
though  ?  "  Godfrey  replied  ;  and  then  he  told  what  he  knew  of 
Gertie  Westbrooke,  and  added,  laughingly  :  "  But  hands  off,  if 
you  please.  She  is  only  thirteen,  and  I  will  not  have  her 
harmed." 


THE  CHURCH  SOCIABLE.  229 

"  Better  talk  to  Tom  Barton,  then.  See,  he  is  asking  her  to 
dance,"  was  Will  Ransom's  reply,  and  glancing  where  Gertie 
sat,  Godfrey  saw  Tom  bending  before  the  child,  who,  remember- 
ing the  insult  on  the  night  of  the  party,  coolly  declined  the  honor 
intended  her  without  offering  an  excuse.  But  Tom  understood 
her,  and  after  standing  an  awkward  moment  and  regarding  her 
intently,  he  said : 

"  Miss  Gertie,  you  are  right  to  refuse  me  unless  I  apologize  for 
my  rudeness  the  other  night.  I  was  drunk,  to  speak  plain,  and 
did  not  know  what  I  was  doing.  I  beg  your  pardon,  and  by 
and  by  if  I  ask  you  to  dance  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse." 

Tom  could  be  very  agreeable  and  polite,  and  in  spite  of  his 
fault  he  was  a  favorite  with  many,  and  when  he  spoke  so  frankly 
to  Gertie  she  felt  that  she  forgave  him,  and  promised  to  join 
him  in  the  next  dance  if  he  liked.  Gertie  did  not  lack  for  par- 
ners  that  night,  and  what  was  best  of  all,  they  were  from  the 
"  creme  de  la  creme"  of  the  town.  Will  Ransom  twice,  Rob- 
ert Macpherson  twice,  Tom  Barton  once,  and  at  last  Godfrey 
himself,  who  had  only  danced  the  first  set  in  order  to  get  the 
thing  going,  he  said.  It  was  the  Lancers,  Gertie's  favorite,  and 
Godfrey  led  her  to  a  conspicuous  place,  and  all  through  the 
dance  felt  a  thrill  of  pride  in  the  graceful  creature,  who  seemed 
to  float  rather  than  walk  through  the  different  changes. 

A  little  apart  Edith  stood,  watching  the  child,  wondering  at 
her  skill.  With  a  sign  to  Godfrey  she  made  him  understand 
that  he  was  to  bring  Gertie  to  her  when  the  dance  was  ended. 

"Who  taught  you  to  dance?"  she  asked,  as  she  looked 
down  upon  the  sparkling  face. 

"  I  had  a  teacher  in  London  two  quarters,"  was  Gertie's  re- 
ply, and  then  as  her  hand  was  claimed  again  she  glided  away, 
leaving  Edith  to  watch  and  wonder  and  try  to  recall,  if  possible, 
the  face  or  the  expression  of  which  Gertie  reminded  her. 

It  was  very  gay  at  Schuyler  Hill  that  night,  for  as  the  evening 
advanced  the  stiffness  which  had  at  first  characterized  the  stran- 
gers wore  away,  and  those  who  did  not  dance  joined  in  the 
games  which  were  played  in  an  adjoining  room,  and  Miss  Ros- 
siter,  in  her  lone  chamber,  corked  her  ears  with  cotton  to  shut 


230  MRS.    ROGERS  SPEAKS  HER  MIXD. 

out  the  noise,  which  was  far  more  harsh  and  discordant  because 
it  came  from  what  she  termed  the  "canaille."  Financially,  too, 
the  Sociable  was  a  great  success,  for  after  the  colonel  had  added 
his  donation  in  the  shape  of  a  "  twenty,"  it  was  found  that  they 
had  raised  seventy  dollars,  and  that  the  melodeon  was  sure. 
Had  it  not  been,  the  colonel  would  have  paid  the  balance  rather 
than  open  his  doors  again,  for  the  affair  was  not  to  his  taste, 
and  he  was  glad  when  the  last  guest  had  said  good-night  and 
his  house  was  cleared  of  them  all.  He  did  not  like  church  soci- 
ables, and  his  daughters  did  not  like  them,  and  Mrs.  Tiffe  did 
not  like  them,  though  there  was  one  comfort,  that  worthy  ma- 
tron said — :"  They  ate  up  all  the  dry  cake  left  from  the  party," 
and  she  congratulated  herself  upon  having  two  fresh  loaves  of 
sponge  left  as  she  locked  up  her  store-room  and  silver,  and  re- 
tired for  the  night. 

Gertie  was  too  much  excited  to  sleep,  and  long  after  her  re- 
turn home  she  sat  and  talked  of  the  Sociable  and  what  she  had 
seen,  and  when  at  last  she  laid  her  head  upon  her  pillow  it  was 
with  the  conviction  that  she  never  could  be  as  happy  again  as 
she  had  been  that  night  at  Schuyler  Hill,  dancing  the  Lancers 
with  Godfrey. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

MRS.    ROGERS    SPEAKS    HER   MIND. 

JALLO,  Bob,  are  you  going  anywhere  in  particular  ?  " 
was  Godfrey's  salutation  to  Robert  Macpherson,  when 
the  next  afternoon  he  met  him  at  a  point  in  the  grounds 
where  two  paths  diverged. 

"  Just  to  town  for  a  walk.     Are  you  going  anywhere  in  par- 
ticular?" was  the  reply,  to  which  Godfrey  responded  : 
"  Just  away  from  town  for  a  walk." 

And  so  the  two  took  different  roads  and  sauntered  on  until, 
curiously  enough,  they  met  again  at  the  gate  of  Mrs.  Rogers' s 
cottage,  where  Gertie  sat  alone  upon  the  porch. 


MRS.   ROGERS  SPEAKS  HER  MIND.  231 

"  Did  you  start  to  come  here  ? "  Robert  asked,  coloring  a 
little,  and  Godfrey  replied  : 

"  Yes  ;  did  you  ?  "  while  his  face  wore  a  look  of  annoyance, 
which  was  in  no  wise  lessened  when  ten  minutes  later  Tom  Bar- 
ton also  appeared,  and  seemed  to  think  it  a  good  joke  that  they 
had  all  met  there  together  and  so  found  each  other  out. 

"  I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  find  out,"  Godfrey  said  dog- 
gedly, adding,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  with  an  impatient  shake 
of  his  pants  :  "This  is  most  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  and  I 
think  I'll  go." 

"  Please,  Mr.  Godfrey,  don't,"  Gertie  said  beseechingly,  feel- 
ing intuitively  that  hers  was  rather  a  novel  position,  alone  with 
three  young  men,  and  that  Godfrey  was  in  some  way  a  protection. 

He  came  to  see  her  of  course,  but  she  was  too  much  a  child 
to  think  for  a  moment  that  the  remembrance  of  her  blue  eyes 
and  wavy  hair  had  brought  the  others  there.  They  came,  no 
doubt,  to  get  some  sewing  done,  and  she  was  sorry  her  auntie 
was  gone,  and  very  glad  when  at  last  she  saw  her  coming  round 
the  turn  in  the  road,  for  now  they  could  give  their  orders  and  go 
away. 

For  an  instant  Mary  Rogers  stopped  short  at  sight  of  three 
town-bred,  fashionable  young  men,  with  perfumed  locks,  and 
fancy  canes,  and  short  coats,  and  soft  hats,  sitting  before  her 
door,  with  Gertie  in  their  midst,  looking  so  beautiful  and  pure 
and  innocent,  and  so  unconscious  withal  of  the  admiration  she 
was  exciting.  Then,  the  good  honest-iriinded  woman's  resolu- 
tion was  taken,  and  she  went  swiftly  up  the  walk  and  courtesy- 
ing  to  her  visitors  asked  what  she  could  do  for  them. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  madame,  we  simply  came  to  call,"  Tom 
Barton  replied,  inspecting  her  curiously,  as  if  she  had  been  a 
Hottentot,  and  wondering  how  that  dainty  bit  of  flesh  and  blood 
in  the  blue  dress  and  pantalets  chanced  to  belong  to  her. 

"  Come  to  call,  did  you.  I  am  sorry  then  I  happened  to  be 
out.  Gertie,  I  brought  this  letter  from  the  office  for  Mrs. 
Simmons.  Tie  on  your  bonnet  and  take  it  to  her  directly," 
Mary  Rogers  said,  while  a  dead  silence  fell  upon  the  group  of 
young  men,  each  of  whom  looked  at  the  others  inquiringly. 


232  MRS.    ROGERS  SPEAR'S  HER  MIND. 

Gertie  was  only  sorry  to  leave  Godfrey,  but  reflecting  that  if 
she  hurried  he  might  be  there  when  she  came  back,  she  hastened 
away,  while  her  admirers  looked  after  her  until  the  turn  in  the 
road  hid  her  from  view.  Then  Mrs.  Rogers  spoke,  standing  up 
before  them  with  a  flush  on  her  face  and  a  dignity  in  her  tone 
and  manner  which  commanded  respect  from  her  audience. 

"  Young  men,"  she  began,  "  you  came  to  see  Gertie,  and  I 
don't  like  it,  and  won't  allow  it  either.  She  is  too  young  to  have 
such  ideas  put  in  her  head,  even  were  you  honest,  which  you 
are  not.  Not  one  of  you  would  marry  her,  or  be  willing  to  be 
seen  with  her  by  your  fashionable  city  friends,  if  she  were  older 
than  she  is.  You  do  not  look  upon  her  as  your  equal,  and  you 
only  come  to  amuse  yourselves  with  her  because  she  is  pretty 
and  sweet ;  but  it  shall  not  be.  It's  no  credit  to  a  girl  in  Gertie's 
position  to  have  a  lot  of  chaps  like  you  hanging  round  her  and 
putting  stuff  into  her  head,  and  I  won't  have  a  breath  of  harm 
done  to  her  future  good  name  by  your  coming  here  and  talking 
nonsense,  which  you  don't  mean,  and  I  put  it  to  your  honor  to 
do  by  my  child  as  you  would  have  a  body  do  by  your  sister  if 
she  was  as  young  and  innocent  as  Gertie." 

"  By  George,  you  are  right !  and  I  give  you  my  hand  as  a 
gentleman  that  by  no  act  of  mine  shall  Gertie  be  com- 
promised !  "  Tom  Barton  exclaimed,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
offered  his  hand  to  Gertie's  champion. 

Tom's  example  was  followed  by  Robert  Macpherson,  but  God- 
frey sat  still  in  his  chair.  Mrs.  Rogers  did  not  mean  him,  of 
course.  She  knew  he  never  would  harm  any  woman,  and  he 
was  not  going  to  promise  not  to  see  Gertie  Westbrooke,  and 
talk  to  her,  too,  as  much  as  he  liked.  But  it  was  a  good  thing  to 
snub  that  drunken  Tom  Barton,  who  was  half-intoxicated  no\v, 
and  he  felt  like  cheering  Mrs.  Rogers,  and  meant  to  stay  after 
the  others  were  gone,  and  tell  her  so.  But  Robert  Macpherson 
meant  to  stay,  too,  and,  after  waiting  impatiently  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes,  Godfrey  arose  at  last  and  said  good-afternoon,  wonder- 
ing within  himself  why  "  Bob  would  stick  himself  where  he  was 
not  wanted." 

Robert  had  business  with  Mrs.  Rogers,  and,  when  alone  with 


ROGERS  SPEAKS  HER  MIND.  233 

her,  he  began  at  once  by  assuring  her  that  so  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned she  had  nothing  to  fear  for  Gertie. 

"  And  you  will  know  you  have  not,"  he  continued,  "when  I 
tell  you  that  she  is  the  very  image  of  the  only  sister  i  ever  had, 
— the  little  girl  who  died  when  just  Gertie's  age,  and  of  whom  I 
never  think  without  a  throb  of  pain." 

It  was  this  wonderful  likeness,  he  said,  which  first  attracted 
him  to  Gertie,  and  made  him  so  desirous  for  her  portrait,  as  he 
had  none  of  his  sister.  And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  how  fond 
he  was  of  his  profession  as  an  artist,  and  that  as  there  were  so 
many  nne  views  in  the  vicinity  of  Hampstead,  he  wished  to  re- 
main there  for  a  time,  sketching  and  studying  the  autumnal 
scenery,  and,  as  he  would  not  of  course  stay  at  Schuyler  Hill, 
he  wished  to  rent  a  room  in  some  quiet  house,  and  take  his 
meals  at  the  hotel. 

Had  Mrs.  Rogers  such  a  room,  and  would  she  let  it  to  him 
for  a  liberal  compensation?  Mrs.  Rogers  was  in  need  of 
money.  Her  own  health  was  not  good,  and  Gertie's  education 
and  music  would  cost  so  much  that  Robert's  oifer  was  a  tempt- 
ing one,  and  she  considered  it  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
said  yes,  and  showed  him  the  large,  pleasant  room  where  Abe- 
lard  Lyle's  coffin  had  stood,  and  where,  within  a  few  days, 
easels,  and  pallets,  and  brushes,  and  paint  were  scattered 
about  promiscuously  ;  for  Robert  had  taken  possession,  and 
dubbed  the  room  his  "  Den,"  and  \vas  going  to  paint  "  La  Sozur  " 
from  Gertie's  face,  and  then  retouch  from  his  memory  of  his 
sister. 

Mary  Rogers  had  struck  a  powerful  blow  for  Gertie,  and 
hedged  her  round  with  the  respect  of  the  young  men,  who 
otherwise  might  have  turned  her  head  as  she  grew  to  woman- 
hood, with  all  her  wondrous  beauty  and  fascinating  sweetness, 
but  for  a  time  she  felt  some  misgivings  as  to  the  propriety  of 
having  taken  Robert  Macpherson  as  a  lodger.  But  when  she 
saw  how  quiet  and  unobtrusive  he  was,  never  seeking  either 
herself  or  her  child,,  unless  he  needed  them  for  the  sittings, 'her 
watchfulness  gradually  subsided,  and  she  felt  that  her  home 
was  pleasanter  for  having  the  artist  there. 


234  THE  NEW  LIFE  AT   THE  HILL. 

Tom  Barton  came  sometimes  to  see  him,  but  he  never  asked 
for  Gertie,  and  if  by  chance  he  saw  her  going  out  or  coming 
in,  he  treated  her  with  as  much  deference  as  if  she  had  been 
one  of  the  ladies  from  Schuyler  Hill.  For  a  few  weeks  Godfrey 
was  there  every  day,  and  sometimes  twice  a  day,  but  as  she 
knew  him  better  Mary  had  no  fears  of  him,  and  trusted  her 
darling  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  brother. 

And  Gertie  did  him  good,  and  always  reproved  him  in  her 
outspoken  way,  when  she  found  him  relapsing  into  careless 
habits  of  speaking,  and  kept  him  constantly  upon  his  good  be- 
havior when  he  was  with  her.  But  she  did  not  think  him  a 
gentleman,  and  she  frankly  told  him  so  when  in  November  he 
came  to  say  good-by,  before  going  to  Andover,  where  he  hoped 
to  prepare  himself  for  Yale  the  following  year.  In  a  laughing 
way  he  referred  to  her  promise  made  on  the  ship,  and  she  re- 
plied : 

"  I  heard  you  say  by  George,  and  call  your  father  the  Gover- 
nor, and  you  are  not  a  gentleman  yet ;  "  but  her  lip  quivered  a 
little,  and  it  was  long  ere  Godfrey  forgot  the  expression  of  the 
blue  eyes,  which  looked  at  him  so  wistfully  as  Gertie  said  good- 
by,  and  told  him  so  innocently  how  much  she  should  miss  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE    NEW    LIFE    AT   THE    HILL. 

|T  was  just  one  year  from  the  day  when  Edith  came  to 
Hampstead,  and  over  the  house  upon  the  Hill  a  dark 
cloud  was  hanging,  as  hour  after  hour  went  by,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  no  hope  for  the  pale-faced  woman  lying 
at  the  very  gates  of  death,  and  talking  in  her  delirium  of  things 
which  no  one  understood.  She  had  been  thus  ever  since  the 
birth  of  the  infant  boy.  at  which  the  colonel  scarcely  looked,  so 
intense  was  his  anxiety  for  the  young  mother,  who.  whenevei 
he  came  near  her  with  words  of  tenderness,  motioned  him 
away,  saying  : 


THE  NEW  LIFE  AT  THE  HILL.  235 

"No,  no,  you  mustn't,  you  don't  know.  It  is  not  the  first, 
as  you  think.  Oh,  my  baby,  I  don't  know  where  she  is;  find 
her,  Howard  ;  find  my  baby  for  me." 

He  brought  her  the  little  mite  of  flesh  and  blood  wrapped  in 
soft  cambric  and  flannel,  and  said  : 

"  Look,  Edith,  here  is  our  boy  ;  shall  I  lay  it  beside  you  ?  " 

Very  wistfully  the  gray  eyes  glanced  for  a  moment  into  the 
colonel's  face  and  then  down  upon  the  child,  while  a  look  of 
anguish  crept  into  them  as  Edith  cried  : 

"  No,  no,  this  is  not  the  one.  I  want  my  lost  baby,  with  the 
blue  eyes.  Will  no  one  find  it  for  me  ?  " 

Then  in  a  curious  way  she  would  examine  her  surroundings 
and  whisper  to  herself: 

"  Handsome  furniture,  fine  linen,  silken  curtains,  and  silver 
dishes  to  eat  from.  This  is  not  the  place.  Mother,  mother, 
where  am  I,  and  are  you  there  by  the  fire  with  baby  ?  " 

She  was  back  again  in  London  in  the  forlorn  room  in  Dorset 
street,  and  the  rain  was  splashing  against  the  windows  just  as  it 
did  that  dreary  day,  and  she  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  lodgers 
on  the  stairs  and  the  roar  of  the  great  city,  and  fought  again  the 
battle  for  her  child,  and  the  iron  hand  came  back  and  clutched 
her  throat  and  strangled  her  until  her  face  was  purple  and  she 
writhed  in  the  agonies  of  suffocation.  Then,  when  the  parox- 
ysm was  over  she  lay  for  hours  in  a  swoon  so  nearly  resembling 
death,  that  at  last  they  thought  her  gone  and  the  whisper  that 
she  was  dead  ran  through  the  hall,  down  to  the  servants'  quar- 
ters, where  it  was  told  to  Gertie  Westbrooke,  who  had  come  to 
inquire  for  her. 

"  No,  no,  not  dead  ;  oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  Gertie  cried,  as 
with  a  low  moan  she  sank  down  upon  the  grass  by  the  door,  and 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands  wept  passionately. 

During  the  past  year  Edith  and  Gertie  had  met  often  by  the 
grave  which  the  child  tended  with  so  much  care,  and  they  had 
learned  to  know  each  other  well.  Together  they  had  talked  of 
French  and  music  and  the  books  which  Gertie  liked  best  and 
the  flowers  of  which  Gertie  knew  so  much  ;  and  Edith  had  writ- 
ten to  the  white-haired  old  lady  among  the  heather  hills,  and 


236  THE  NEW  LIFE  AT   THE  HILL. 

sent  the  roses  Gertie  had  pressed.  And  when  the  answer  came 
which  had  in  it  a  blessing  for  "  the  bonny  lassie  who  looks  after 
my  puir  laddie's  grave,"  Edith  read  it  to  Gertie  as  they  sat 
under  the  shadow  of  the  whispering  pine  which  grew  above  the 
grave.  And  now  all  this  had  come  to  an  end,  and  all  the  bright- 
ness of  Gertie's  life  seemed  stricken  out  with  the  words  : 

"  Mrs.  Schuyler  is  dead." 

"  And  she  so  lovely  and  good, — and  she  liked  me,  too.  Oh, 
I  cannot  bear  it, — I  cannot !  "  Gertie  sobbed,  just  as  a  footstep 
came  near. 

Looking  up,  she  saw  Emma,  who,  overhearing  the  words,  and 
guessing  at  their  meaning,  said  to  her  : 

"  Gertie,  she  is  not  dead.  She  has  revived  a  little  and  is 
breathing  still,  though  the  doctor  thinks  her  dying." 

"  Not  dead  ?  Then  there  is  hope  !  Oh,  Miss  Emma,  may 
I  just  look  at  her?  I'll  be  so  very  quiet,  and  1  loved  her  so 
much  !" 

"  Yes.  I  do  not  know  as  you  can  do  any  harm  by  looking  at 
her,"  Emma  said,  and  in  an  instant  Gertie  was  flying  up  the 
stairs  and  along  the  south  hall  which  led  to  Edith's  room. 

The  door  was  open,  and  looking  in,  she  saw  the  white  face 
upon  the  pillow,  framed  in  masses  of  golden-brown  hair,  which 
the  fair  hands  had  torn  and  matted  when  the  iron  fingers  were 
at  the  throat.  She  seemed  to  be  dead,  and  the  doctor  touched 
her  pulse  to  see  if  it  still  beat,  when  the  lips  said  faintly  : 

"  Where's  my  little  girl  ?  " 

The  last  word  was  prolonged,  and  to  the  excited  child  it 
sounded  like  "little  Gertie,"  and,  without  stopping  to  consider 
the  consequences,  Gertie  darted  across  the  floor  to  the  side  of 
the  sick  woman,  whose  lips  she  kissed,  as  she  said : 

"  I'm  here  !  I'm  here  !  " 

"  Go  away  !  "  came  sternly  from  the  wretched  husband,  who 
frowned  darkly  upon  the  girl  thus  audaciously  disturbing  his 
dying  wife. 

And  with  a  frightened  face  Gertie  started  to  obey  him,  when 
the  physician  interposed  and  stopped  her,  saying : 

"  Speak  to  her  again." 


THE  NEW  LIFE  AT  THE   HILL.  237 

His  practised  eye  had  detected  a  change  in  his  patient  when 
Gertie  first  spoke  to  her,  and  now,  when  at  his  command  the 
silvery  voice,  so  full  of  love  and  tender  pathos,  said,  "  I  am 
here, — little  Gertie.  Do  you  know  me,  Mrs.  Schuyler?"  there 
certainly  was  a  change,  but  whether  from  the  effect  of  the  power- 
ful medicine  given  a  few  moments  before  as  a  last  experiment, 
or  because  of  that  voice,  which  rang  so  clear  and  birdlike,  I 
cannot  tell.  I  only  know  something  penetrated  into  the  deep 
darkness,  and  brought  back  the  senses  almost  gone  forever. 
There  was  a  fluttering  of  the  eyelids ;  then  they  unclosed,  and 
the  eyes  looked  full  at  Gertie,  while  the  lips  whispered,  "  Stay  !  " 
and  a  hand  moved  slowly  toward  the  child,  who  grasped  it  in 
her  own,  and  held  it  fast,  while  Edith  slept  for  a  few  moments. 

"  She  is  better, — she  will  live,"  the  doctor  said,  as  he  met  her 
look  of  recognition  when  her  sleep  was  over.  "  Quiet  now  is 
what  she  needs." 

And  then  Gertie  started  to  leave  the  room,  but  the  white 
fingers  closed  tightly  round  hers,  and  seeing  that,  Colonel 
Schuyler  bade  her  stay. 

So  Gertie  stayed  that  afternoon,  and  sat  by  Edith's  side,  and 
smoothed  the  tangled  hair  and  bathed  the  pale  forehead,  and  held 
the  cooling  drink  to  the  parched  lips  ;  and  once  when  the  baby 
cried  in  the  next  room  she  went  and  took  it  up,  and,  soothing 
it  into  quiet,  laid  it  back  upon  its  dainty  bed. 

Gertie  was  a  natural  nurse,  and  she  covered  herself  with  so 
much  glory  that  day  at  Schuyler  Hill  that  the  colonel  himself 
unbent  to  her,  and  sent  her  home  in  his  carriage  because  of  a 
rain  which  was  falling,  and  asked  her  to  come  again. 

And  Gertie  went  often  during  the  weeks  of  Edith's  illness, 
and  the  sick  woman  felt  better  and  happier  when  Gertie  was  in 
the  room  beside  her,  where  she  could  look  at  her  and  touch  her 
if  she  chose.  There  had  been  consciousness  for  half  an  hour 
or  more  after  the  birth  of  her  child,  but  instead  of  joy  that  "  a 
man  was  born  into  the  world,"  there  had  swept  over  her  a  wave  of 
bitter  anguish  as  she  remembered  the  home  in  Dorset  Street,  and 
the  other  little  one,  of  whom  Colonel  Schuyler  never  heard, 
and  whose  father  slept  under  the  evergreen  which  she  could  see 


238  THE  NEW  LIFE  AT   THE   HILL. 

from  her  window  nodding  in  the  autumn  wind,  and  bending  to- 
ward her  as  it  seemed  in  an  attitude  of  menace. 

They  had  brought  her  baby  for  her  to  see,  but  the  touch  of 
its  hand  on  her  cheek  had  awakened  such  intense  love,  and  re- 
morse, and  pity  and  longing  for  the  other  child  dead  so  long 
ago,  that  she  had  writhed  in  agony  and  pushed  her  boy  awav, 
while  her  wandering  mind  went  far,  far  down  into  the  deepest 
depths  of  darkness  as  she  reviewed  a  page  of  her  life  which  she 
had  thought  sealed  forever.  How  awful  were  the  hours  of 
those  days  when  the  pine  tree  nodded  and  grinned  and  laughed 
and  threw  its  long  arms  at  her,  and  Abelard  came  and  stood 
beside  her  with  sad,  reproachful  eyes. 

Oh,  it  was  horrible,  and  from  this  horror  Gertie's  voice  had 
called  hef  back,  and  she  clung  to  the  young  girl,  and  insisted 
upon  having  her  with  her  as  much  as  possible,  and  said  to  her- 
self: 

"  It's  because  of  her  care  for  that  grave  that  I  love  her  so 
much  ;  "  and  when  one  day  during  her  convalescence  Gertia 
came  to  her  and  told  her  of  Miss  Armstrong's  sudden  illness, 
and  that  the  school  was  closed  indefinitely,  and  asked  what  she 
should  do  for  a  teacher,  Edith  considered  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said  : 

"  Go,  please,  to  Colonel  Schuyler's  room,  and  ask  him  to 
come  here,  and  you  wait  in  the  hall  till  you  see  him  go  out." 

"  What  is  it,  darling  ?  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  the 
colonel  asked,  as  he  bent  over  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  Howard,"  and  Edith's  white  fingers  strayed  caressingly 
over  his  hair  and  forehead.  "  You  know  that, — that  both  of  us 
feel  as  if  I  were  indebted  to  Gertie  Westbrooke  for  my  life,  and 
I  wish  to  do  her  a  favor.  Will  you  say  yes  to  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly — certainly.  Is  it  money  ?  "  the  colonel  asked, 
and  Edith  replied : 

"  No.  Miss  Armstrong's  school  is  broken  up,  and  Gertie 
has  no  teacher.  She  is  a  fine  scholar,  I  hear,  and  anxious  to 
learn.  Let  her  come  here  every  day  and  recite  to  Miss  Brown- 
ing. Miss  Alice  has  nearly  finished  her  education,  and  will 
soon  be  gone.  Shall  it  be  so  ?  May  I  tell  her  to  come  ?  " 


THE   NEW  LIFE  AT   THE  HILL.  239 

There  was  a  momentary  hesitation  on  the  colonel's  part  and 
then  he  answered  : 

"  Yes,  certainly,  yes,  let  her  come.  You  always  had  a  penchant 
for  this  girl,  and  I  must  say  she  seems  a  very  remarkable  child." 

And  so  it  was  settled  that  Gertie  was  henceforth  to  recite  to 
Miss  Browning,  and  though  there  was  much  opposition  in  the 
school-room,  the  colonel  stood  firmly  to  his  decision,  and  one 
pleasant  morning  in  October  Gertie  brought  her  books  to  Schuy- 
ler  Hill  and  took  the  desk  assigned  her,  far  removed  from  her 
aristocratic  companions,  who  at  first  scarcely  noticed  her  by  so 
much  as  a  nod  of  recognition. 

But  as  time  went  on  her  sweet  temper  and  quiet,  gentle  de- 
meanor insensibly  won  upon  them,  while  they  were  surprised 
at  her  scholarship,  so  superior  in  some  respects  to  their  own 
that  even  Alice  stooped  more  than  once  to  ask  information 
from  her.  Whatever  Gertie  undertook  she  did  thoroughly,  but 
her  great  success  as  a  scholar  was  owing  in  part  to  the  interest 
Robert  Macpherson  had  evinced  in  her  studies  ever  since  he 
became  an  occupant  of  the  cottage.  He  was  away  now  on  the 
Western  prairies  sketching  the  scenery  there,  and  so  Gertie 
was  thrown  upon  her  own  resources  ;  but  she  was  equal  to  the 
emergency,  and  studied  early  and  late  to  overtake  and  surpass, 
if  possible,  the  young  ladies  who  looked  upon  her  so  contemp- 
tuously. But  for  any  coldness  on  their  part  she  more  than  had 
amends  in  the  extreme  kindness  with  which  Edith  invariably 
treated  her  ;  while  the  baby,  who  was  called  James  for  the 
colonel's  father,  was  a  constant  source  of  delight. 

Jamie  was  a  beautiful  child,  with  a  mass  of  dark  brown 
curls,  and  eyes  like  his  father's ;  and  even  Julia,  who  had  from 
the  first  been  opposed  to  his  birth,  and  treated  her  step-mother 
with  great  coolness  on  account  of  it,  softened  toward  him,  and 
wrote  to  Miss  Rossiter,  who  was  now  in  New  York,  that  "  he 
really  was  a  fine  child,  and  that  all  things  considered,  she  was 
quite  reconciled  to  his  birth,  though  she  felt  for  Godfrey,  who 
was  no  longer  the  only  son." 

The  baby  was  a  success,  and  no  one  seemed  to  love  it  more 
than  Gertie  \Vestbrooke.  She  was  'passionately  fond  of  chil- 


240  MARY  ROGERS. 

dren,  and  devoted  herself  so  much  to  Jamie  that  he  soon 
learned  to  know  her,  and  would  cry  when  she  left  his  sight. 
And  so  it  came  about  that  she  was  much  with  Edith,  who  each 
day  grew  more  and  more  interested  in  her,  and  more  resolved 
to  care  for  and  befriend  her  in  every  possible  way. 


CHAPTER  XXX IV. 

MARY    ROGERS. 

was  a  cold  wintry  night,  and  a  February  rain  was 
beating  against  the  windows  of  the  house  on  the  Hill, 
when  Edith  was  roused  from  sleep  by  Norah,  who 
said  : 

"  If  you  please,  Mrs.  Schuyler,  Gertie  Westbrooke  has  come 
all  alone  from  the  cottage  in  the  rain  and  dark,  and  says  my 
cousin  is  dying  and  wants  to  see  you.  She's  very  bad,  and 
talking  such  queer  things." 

Scarcely  knowing  what  she  was  doing,  Edith  arose  and  began 
to  dress,  while  the  colonel  followed  more  leisurely,  feeling  an- 
noyed at  Mary  Rogers  for  being  sick  on  such  a  night  as  this, 
and  sending  for  his  wife,  thereby  putting  him  to  great  discom- 
fort and  inconvenience,  for  if  Edith  went  to  the  cottage  he  of 
course  must  go  also.  And  in  a  short  time  they  were  in  their 
carriage  and  driving  rapidly  down  the  road  toward  the  house, 
where  Gertie  was  anxiously  expecting  them. 

As  soon  as  she  delivered  her  message  she  ran  back  through 
the  darkness  and  rain,  and  when  the  carnage  drew  up  before 
the  gate  she  stood  in  the  open  doorway,  her  hair  all  wet  and 
dripping,  and  her  face  pale  with  fear  as  she  clutched  Edith's 
dress,  and  whispered  : 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  have  come.  She  wanted  you  so  much  and 
said  there  was  something  she  must  tell  you.  But  I'm  afraid  she 
can't  now,  because  she's  worse.  She  cannot  talk.  The  doctoi 
is  there.  1  went  for  him  first,  and  then  back  by  the  Hill.  Come 
quick,  please,"  and  Gertie  hurried  her  on  to  the  apartment 


MARY  ROGERS.  241 

where  Mary  Rogers  lay,  her  face  ashen  pale,  and  her  eyes  fas- 
tening themselves  with  a  look  of  intense  longing  and  eagerness 
upon  Edith  as  she  came  in.  When  a  young  girl  Mrs.  Rogers 
had  suffered  from  an  affection  of  the  heart,  which  she  supposed 
she  had  entirely  outlived.  Within  the  last  few  months,  how- 
ever, it  had  troubled  her  at  intervals,  and  on  the  night  of  the 
severe  attack  she  had  told  Gertie  she  was  not  well,  and  gone 
early  to  bed.  Gertie,  who  slept  upstairs,  was  awakened,  she 
said,  by  loud  groans,  and  hurrying  to  her  auntie's  room  she 
found  her  on  the  floor,  where  she  had  fallen  in  her  attempt  to 
strike  a  light.  Her  first  words  after  Gertie  helped  her  back  to 
bed  were  : 

"I  am  going  to  die,  and  I  must  see  Mrs.  Schuyler  and  tell 
her  something.  Go  for  her  quick,  and  the  doctor,  too,  if  you 
are  not  afraid." 

She  could  talk  then,  but  her  powers  of  speech  were  gone  now, 
and  when  Edith  went  up  to  her  and  said  :  "  What  can  I  do  for 
you  ?  "  her  lips  tried  in  vain  to  frame  the  words  she  would  say, 
while  great  drops  of  sweat  stood  upon  her  face,  wrung  out  by 
her  intense  desire  to  speak.  It  was  hardly  paralysis,  or  apo- 
plexy either,  the  doctor  said,  but  a  kind  of  cross  between  the 
two,  and  while  it  left  her  mind  perfectly  clear,  it  took  from  her 
the  power  of  utterance,  and  made  her  as  helpless  as  a  child. 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  what  it  is  you  wish  to  say  to  me  ?  "  Edith 
asked,  as  she  took  the  hand  which  was  raised-  feebly  to  meet 
hers. 

There  was  a  shake  of  the  head,  and  Edith  continued  :  "  Per- 
haps you  can  write  it  ?  " 

Another  head  shake,  while  the  eager  eyes  went  from  Edith's 
face  to  Gertie,  and  from  Gertie  back  again. 

"  I  think  I  can  guess,"  Edith  said.  "  It  is  about  Gertie. 
You  wish  to  talk  to  me  of  her." 

Then  the  quivering  lips  moved,  and  gave  forth  a  sound  which 
Edith  knew  meant  "  Yes,"  and  she  continued  :  "  You  are  anx- 
ious about  her  future  if  you  die  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rogers  waited  a  moment  and  then  nodded  assent,  while 
every  muscle  of  her  face  worked  painfully  as  she  tried  to  speak. 


242  MARY  ROGERS. 

"  Oh,  auntie,"  Gertie  cried,  as  she  bent  over  the  sick  woman, 
''don't  be  troubled  for  me.  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  I  am 
strong  and  well  and  willing  to  work.  I  can  find  something  to 
do,  and  everybody  will  be  kind  to  me." 

There  were  tears  in  Mary's  eyes,  and  they  rolled  down  her 
cheeks  as  she  looked  at  the  brave  young  girl,  who  was  so  sure 
of  finding  kindness  in  everybody. 

Meanwhile  Edith  had  been  thinking,  and  as  the  result  of  her 
thought  she  said  : 

"Mrs.  Rogers,  will  it  comfort  you  to  know  that  if  you  die 
Gertie  shall  come  to  live  with  me,  and  that  I  will  take  care  of 
her  ?  " 

Then  the  quivering  lips  managed  to  say  :  "Yes,"  and  feeling 
for  Gertie's  hand  Mary  put  it  in  Edith's,  and  whispered  "Yours," 
while  the  sweat  drops  on  her  face  grew  larger  and  thicker  with 
her  agonizing  efforts  to  tell  what  she  could  not.  How  hard  she 
tried  to  make  them  understand  the  secret  she  had  kept  so  long, 
and  once  she  took  the  shawl  which  lay  near  her,  and  folding  it 
up  to  look  like  a  child,  she  held  it  close  to  her  bosom  as  a 
mother  holds  her  baby,  and  then  with  her  hand  pointed  to 
Gertie,  and  from  her  to  Edith,  mumbling  the  one  word,  "  Yours, 
yours." 

"  What  does  she  mean  ?  "  Edith  asked  in  great  perplexity. 
"  It  must  be  something  about  little  Jamie, — that  you  will  take 
care  of  him  perhaps.  Is  that  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rogers'  "  No-o-o  "  came  with  a  moaning  cry,  followed 
at  last  by  the  word  "  equal,"  spoken  so  plainly  that  there  could 
be  no  mistake. 

"  Equal,"  Edith  repeated,  thoughtfully  ;  and  then,  as  a  sudden 
idea,  came  into  her  mind,  her  face  flushed  a  little,  and,  remem- 
bering the  pride  and  haughtiness  at  Schuyler  Hill,  and  the  oppo- 
sition she  might  have  to  encounter,  she  hesitated  a  moment 
before  she  asked  :  "  You  wish  Gertie  to  come  to  me  as  an 
equal  ?  " 

There  was  a  decided  nod,  and  then  Edith  glanced  at  the 
beautiful  girl  beside  her  standing  with  clasped  hands,  her  head 
bent  forward  to  listen,  with  a  look  of  surprise  and  wonder  in 


MARY  ROGERS.  243 

her  eyes.  That  she  should  go  to  Schuyler  Hill  as  anything  but 
an  equal  had  never  occurred  to  her,  and  the  question  hurt  her 
a  little,  and  brought  a  flush  of  pride  into  her  face  as  she  waited 
Edith's  reply. 

"Surely,  they  can  make  no  menial  of  her,"  Edith  thought, 
as  she  looked  again  at  the  young  girl  just  budding  into  woman- 
hood, and  resolving  to  brave  everything  she  said,  as  if  there 
had  never  been  a  doubt  in  her  mind.  "  Certainly,  Mrs.  Rogers, 
(she  shall  come  as  an  equal,  and  have  every  possible  advantage. 
I  promise  you  that  solemnly.  Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

Mary  nodded,  while  her  eyes  still  wore  that  look  of  intense 
longing,  as  if  there  was  something  more  which  she  wished  to 
tell.  But  she  could  not,  though  she  kept  repeating  "  Yours, 
yours" 

They  could  not  guess  her  meaning,  and  thought  her  mind 
was  wandering ;  but  the  motion  of  dissent  she  made  when  they 
hinted  as  much  was  a  proof  to  the  contrary. 

Very  sleepy,  and  uncomfortable,  and  a  little  impatient 
withal,  Colonel  Schuyler  waited  in  the  adjoining  room,  wholly 
unsuspicious  of  the  compact  which  was  to  affect  him  so 
seriously.  But  Edith  did  not  forget  him,  or  that  it  was  his 
right  to  have  something  to  say  on  the  matter ;  and  when  she 
saw  the  sick  woman  was  quiet,  she  went  out  to  him,  and  laying 
her  arm  caressingly  across  his  neck,  said  : 

"  Howard,  I  have  done  something  which  I  trust  you  will  ap- 
prove. That  poor  woman  is  distressed  about  leaving  Gertie 
alone,  and  I  have  promised  that  she  shall  live  with  us." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  the  colonel  said,  thinking  of 
Jamie,  and  how  much  he  was  attached  to  Gertie  Westbrooke." 

"  Yes,  but  that  is  not  all.  I  have  promised  to  take  her  as 
an  equal ;  not  as  a  servant  in  any  form.  I  am  to  treat  her  and 
educate  her  as  if  she  were  my  sister.  Are  you  willing,  How- 
ard ?  If  not,  say  so  at  once,  that  I  may  take  back  my  pledge  • 
for  if  she  dies  with  my  promise  given,  I  must  keep  it  to  the  let- 
ter. Are  you  willing,  Howard  ?  " 

He  did  not  know  whether  he  was  or  not.  He  only  knew 
that  it  was  very  disagreeable  being  turned  out  of  bed  at  mid- 


244  MARY  ROGERS. 

night  and  brought  through  the  storm  to  this  comfortless  room, 
where  the  fire  in  the  stove  did  not  burn,  and  the  one  candle  on 
the  table  ran  up  a  huge  black  wick  and  smelled  horribly  of  tal- 
low ;  and  then,  to  crown  all,  Edith  must  ask  if  he  was  willing 
to  take  into  his  family  and  treat  as  her  sister  a  little  obscure 
girl,  whose  mother  took  in  fluting,  and  ironing,  and  mopping, 
too,  for  aught  he  knew,  for  a  living.  Yes,  it  was  hard,  and  his 
eyebrows  came  together,  and  his  hands  went  further  into  his 
pockets,  while  he  sat  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  he  said  : 

"  Do  you  wish  it  very  much  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  wish  it,"  Edith  said,  "  more  than  I  have  wished  for 
anything  in  years." 

"  Then  take  her,"  was  the  response ;  and  with  a  kiss  of 
thanks,  Edith  went  back  to  the  sick-room  where  Mrs.  Rogers 
was  now  asleep,  with  her  head  pillowed  on  Gertie's  shoulder. 

But  the  slumber  did  not  last  long,  and  when  the  gray,  wet 
wintry  morning  looked  into  the  room,  Mary  Rogers  was  dead,  and 
what  she  had  tried  so  hard  to  tell  Edith  Schuyler  had  not  been 
told.  Gertie's  grief  at  first  was  wild  and  passionate,  but  Edith 
comforted  her  as  best  she  could,  and  led  her  up  to  her  own 
chamber,  the  little  room  where  she  once  had  dreamed  of  future 
happiness  and  then  wept  bitterly  over  its  ruin. 

As  she  entered  the  apartment  and  cast  her  eye  upon  the  op- 
posite wall,  she  started  involuntarily,  while  the  words  rose  to 
her  lips,  "  How  came  my. picture  here  ?" 

But  it  was  "  La  Sceur"  which  Robert,  who  was  in  New  York 
for  the  winter,  had  finished  and  given  Gertie  permission  to  hang 
in  her  room,  and  which  at  first  struck  Edith  forcibly  as  a  like- 
ness of  herself  when,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  she  used  to  look  from  the 
windows  of  that  room  for  the  coming  of  Abelard.  As  she  ex- 
amined it  more  closely,  however,  the  likeness  faded,  and  she 
could  not  see  Heloise  Fordham  in  it  as  plainly  as  she  did  at 
first. 

"  Edith,  my  dear, — you  really  must  go  now.  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  remain  any  longer,"  came  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
where  the  colonel  was  standing,  and  with  a  kiss  for  the  desolate 
child,  and  a  promise  to  come  again  before  the  day  was  over, 


MARY  ROGERS.  245 

and  to  send  Norah  to  stay  altogether  till  after  the  funeral,  Edith 
joined  her  impatient  lord  and  was  driven  rapidly  home. 

Nor  did  she  return  as  she  had  promised,  for  exposure  to  the 
damp  night  air  brought  on  a  severe  cold,  which  confined  her  to 
her  room,  where,  on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  she  sat  looking 
wistfully  in  the  direction  of  the  cottage,  where  the  hearse  was 
standing  before  the  gate,  just  as  it  stood  that  other  day  when 
hers  was  the  only  heart  which  ached  for  the  burden  it  took  away. 
It  was  the  Schuyler  carriage  which  took  Gertie  and  Norah  to 
the  grave,  and  Edith  blessed  her  husband  for  this  kindness  to 
the  girl  who  was  so  much  to  her,  and  for  his  thoughtfulness  in 
requesting  his  daughters  and  their  governess  to  attend  the  fun- 
eral. He  did  it  for  her  sake,  she  knew,  and  Julia  knew  so, 
too,  and  in  Edith's  hearing  made  some  remarks  about  "  the 
new  element  which  was  dragging  her  father  down." 

As  yet  she  did  not  know  that  Gertie  was  coming  to  the  Hill 
to  live.  Neither  did  any  one,  except  Mrs.  Tiffe,  for  Edith 
thought  best  not  to  speak  of  it  during  the  two  or  three  days 
when  Norah  remained  at  the  cottage  looking  over  her  cousin's 
effects,  packing  away  her  things,  and  separating  them  from 
Gertie's. 

In  a  small  tin  box,  which  fastened  with  a  spring,  they  found 
several  business-like  documents,  some  yellow  with  age,  some 
fresher-looking,  and  among  them  the  papers  relating  to  Gertie's 
"forty  pounds."  These  Norah  kept  to  give  to  Colonel  Schuy- 
ler; then  carelessly  glancing  at  a  few  of  the  others,  and  finding 
them  mostly  receipts  and  papers  relating, to  the  bank,  now  good 
for  nothing,  she  proposed  to  Gertie  that  they  burn  them.  But 
Gertie  said,  "  No,  J  may  want  to  look  at  them  some  time  ; "  so 
they  were  again  placed  back  in  the  box,  which  was  put  away  in 
Gertie's  trunk  and  the  house  was  set  to  rights,  and  the  room 
which  Robert  Macpherson  still  kept  for  his  studio  when  he  was 
in  Hampstead  was  left  just  as  it  was,  with  "  La  Soeur "  re- 
moved to  its  old  place  on  the  easel,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
third  day  Norah  locked  the  doors,  and,  with  Gertie,  passed  out 
into  the  street,  leaving  tenantless  the  cottage  for  which  Godfrey 
had  never  taken  rent  since  Mrs.  Rogers  occupied  it. 


24<>  GERTIE  AT  THE  HILL. 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

GERTIE   AT  THE    HILL. 

j|T  was  known  now,  from  Mrs.  Tiffe,  the  housekeeper, 
down  to  Jennie,  the  scullion,  that  Gertie  Westbrooke 
was  to  be  an  inmate  of  the  household,  but  no  one 
seemed  to  care  particularly,  unless  it  were  Kitty,  the  laundress, 
who  groaned  over  the  extra  washing,  but  consoled  herself  that 
the  girl  would  not  probably  "  wear  as  many  frillicks  and  puffs  as 
the  young  ladies  did." 

VVith  regard  in  her  exact  position  in  the  family  the  servants 
were  at  first  in  doubt,  but  guessed  she  was  to  be  either  second 
waiting-maid  to  their  mistress  or  nurse  to  the  baby,  but  of  this 
opinion  Edith,  who  overheard  their  conjectures,  disabused  them 
at  once. 

"Miss  Westbrooke  is  not  coming  here  as  waitress  or  nurse," 
she  said.  "  She  comes  as  a  young  lady  of  the  house,  and  as 
such  you  will  treat  her  with  deference  and  respect." 

The  servants  glanced  curiously  at  each  other,  and  John,  the 
table-waiter,  said  he  knew  now  why  Miss  Julia  looked  so  black 
at  lunch,  and  whisked  so  spitefully  out  of  the  room. 

Julia  was  furious,  and  when  alone  with  her  father  spoke  her 
mind  freely  to  him,  asking  first  if  it  were  true,  that  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler  had  adopted  Gertie  Rogers,  and  was  to  bring  her  there  to 
live. 

"  Not  adopted  ;  no,  certainly  not  adopted  her,"  the  colonel 
said,  apologetically,  for  there  was  something  in  his  daughter's 
black  eyes  which  made  him  wince  a  little.  "  That  woman  was 
anxious  about  her  child's  future,  and  Mrs.  Schuyler, — or,  rather, 
we  promised  to  give  her  a  home  and  an  education,  but  there 
was  no  talk  of  adoption.  No,  certainly  not." 

He  was  careful  to  spare  Edith  as  much  as  possible,  and  gen- 
erously said  iff, — but  Julia  was  not  deceived,  and  answered,  in- 
dignantly : 

"  What  is  Gertie  Rogers  and  that  woman  to  Mrs.  Schuyler  ? 


GERTIE  AT  THE  HILL.  247 

Are  they  relatives  of  hers,  that  she  has  so  persistently  interested 
herself  in  them  since  she  first  came  to  Hampstead  ?  It  would 
certainly  seem  as  if  they  were  more  than  mere  chance  acquaint- 
ances, as  she  affirms." 

"  Julia,  hush  !  I  will  hear  no  more  !  "  the  colonel  said ;  but 
Julia  would  not  stop,  and  continued,  hotly  : 

"  I  wonder  what  my  mother  would  say  could  she  know  the 
kind  of  society  to  which  her  children  are  subjected,  and  the 
danger  threatening  Godfrey." 

"Godfrey!"  the  colonel  repeated,  in  surprise;  and  Julia 
answered  him  : 

"  You  must  have  been  blind  not  to  have  seen  the  interest  he 
has  taken  in  Gertie  Rogers  ever  since  she  came  here.  Why, 
she  has  even  presumed  to  criticise  his  manners  and  his  mode 
of  talk  ;  and  he  has  promised  to  improve  for  her  sake,  and 
holds  her  up  as  a  pattern  for  Alice  and  me  to  imitate.  If  he 
does  this  now,  when  she  is  in  her  proper  place,  what  may  he 
not  do  when  he  finds  her  here,  an  equal,  and  a  daughter  of  the 
house,  as  I  understand  Mrs.  Schuyler  says  she  is  to  be.  Pos- 
sibly she  rnay  yet  be  the  daughter  really  ;  and  if  so,  you'll  have 
yourself  to  thank." 

Now,  Julia  had  not  the  slightest  fear  for  Godfrey,  and  the 
entire  secret  of  her  aversion  to  the  child  lay  in  the  interest  which 
Robert  Macpherson  manifested  in  her.  From  the  first  Julia 
had  appropriated  Robert  to  herself,  and  was  fearfully  jealous  of 
any  one  who  stood  in  her  way  in  the  least.  She  had  quarrelled 
with  Rosamond  Barton  because  he  once  escorted  her  home 
from  a  party,  and  had  refused  to  speak  to  Emma  for  an  entire 
day  when  she  found  her  in  the  summer-house  alone  with  Robert, 
who  was  reading  "Lady  Geraldine's  Love"  to  her;  and  though 
Gertie  was  a  mere  child,  she  was  even  jealous  of  her  because 
of  Robert's  interest  in  her,  and  the  unbounded  praise  he  so 
unhesitatingly  bestowed  upon  her.  He  thought  her  face  the 
most  beautiful  he  had  ever  seen,  and  he  had  painted  her  por- 
trait and  called  it  "La  Sceur,"  and  spoke  of  her  so  often  in 
Julia's  presence  that  she  began  to  hate  the  girl,  who  had  here- 
tofore been  only  indifferent  to  her  as  one  beneath  her  notice ; 


248  GERTIE  AT  THE  HILL. 

and  now  she  was  to  become  an  inmate  of  the  family,  where 
Mr.  Macpherson  would  meet  her  on  terms  of  equality  when  he 
came  back  to  Hampstead  in  the  spring  ;  and  this  was  the  cause 
of  Julia's  anger,  and  the  reason  why  she  dared  talk  as  she  did 
to  her  father,  who  was  made  quite  as  uncomfortable  as  she 
wished  him  to  be. 

Perhaps  it  was  an  unwise  thing  to  bring  Gertie  into  the  house 
on  terms  of  equality.  She  was  very  pretty.  She  would,  of 
course,  grow  prettier  with  years,  while  Godfrey  was  headstrong 
and  impetuous,  and  might  be  led  to  do  her  harm  by  attentions 
which  to  him  would  mean  nothing,  but  would,  nevertheless,  be 
much  to  her.  The  colonel  tried  to  believe  that  it  was  only  for 
Gertie  that  he  anticipated  harm.  Godfrey  would  never  be  in 
earnest,  and,  consequently,  no  serious  injury  could  accrue  to 
him,  except,  indeed,  the  moral  one  of  deceiving  and  playing 
with  the  feelings  of  another.  The  real  hurt  would  fall  on 
Gertie,  and  for  her  sake  it  might  have  been  better  if  he  had 
left  her  where  she  was.  Thus  Colonel  Schuyler  reasoned  after 
Julia  left  him  to  his  own  reflections,  which  finally  assumed  the 
conviction  that  Edith  had  been  foolish,  if  not  unreasonable,  to 
wish  Gertie  to  come  there,  and  he  unwise  to  permit  it.  But  it 
was  too  late  now.  She  was  expected  that  very  afternoon,  and 
as  he  went  up  to  look  at  his  boy  before  going  into  town,  he 
stumbled  over  dustpan  and  broom  which  were  standing  before 
the  door  of  the  room  opposite  Edith's,  and  which  he  knew  was 
to  be  Gertie  Westbrooke's.  Glancing  in,  he  saw  a  bright  fire 
in  the  grate,  and  a  pretty  bouquet  of  flowers  on  the  dressing- 
table,  while  Edith  herself  was  arranging  the  chairs  and  curtains 
and  ornaments  upon  the  mantel. 

"  Edith,  what  are  you  doing  here  in  this  cold  room  ?  "  he  said, 
rather  sharply. 

He  had  never  spoken  to  her  in  this  tone  of  voice,  and  she 
turned  toward  him  with  a  look  of  surprise  in  her  face  as  she  re- 
plied : 

"  It  is  not  cold ;  the  fire  has  been  kindled  some  time,  and  I 
wanted  to  see  that  Gertie's  room  was  all  right.  I  am  so  sorry 
for  her,  and  wish  her  to  feel  at  home." 


GERTIE  AT   THE  HILL.  249 

"  Yes,  certainly  ;  but,  Edith, — Mrs.  Schuyler, — my  dear, — are 
you  not  in  danger  of  spoiling  her  by  making  so  much  of  her. 
You  could  hardly  do  more  if  she  were  Alice  herself,  and  such 
people  do  not  often  bear  sudden  elevation." 

"  Oh,  Howard,  what  do  you  mean  ?  You  are  not  sorry  we 
gave  her  a  home  ?  "  Edith  said,  in  much  perplexity  at  his  man- 
ner, as  she  followed  him  into  the  nursery. 

"No,  not  exactly  that,  certainly  not;  tinder  the  circum- 
stances we  could  hardly  have  done  otherwise  than  to  give  her 
a  home,  but  we  might  have  stopped  there  ;  we  need  not  have 
made  her  one  of  the  family,  and  our  having  done  so  may  be 
productive  of  a  great  deal  of  harm.  My  daughter  Julia  is  al- 
ready in  open  rebellion,  and  has  said  things  which  disturb  me 
very  much." 

"Julia,"  Edith  began,  indignantly,  but  checked  herself  at 
once,  as  she  met  the  questioning  look  in  her  husband's  eyes, 
and  saw  the  meeting  together  of  his  eyebrows. 

Julia  had  been  her  only  bete  noir  since  the  departure  of  Miss 
Rossiter,  and  though  they  were  outwardly  extremely  polite  to 
each  other,  Edith  knew  that  she  was  looked  upon  by  the  young 
lady  as  an  intruder  and  adventuress,  and  that  the  slightest  pro- 
vocation on  her  part  would  fan  the  smouldering  fire  into  a  flame. 

Not  a  hint  of  this,  however,  had  she  ever  given  her  husband, 
who,  as  she  stopped  suddenly,  said  : 

"  You  were  going  to  speak  of  Julia." 

"  Nothing  of  any  consequence,"  she  replied,  "  except  that  I 
will  keep  Gertie  out  of  her  way  as  much  as  possible." 

"  Yes,  certainly,  and  now  I  must  go.  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment in  town.  There's  the  carriage  at  the  door.  Good-by." 

He  kissed  her  forehead  and  stooped  to  kiss  his  boy,  when 
Edith  said  hesitatingly  : 

"  By  the  way,  Howard,  would  you  mind  driving  round  by 
the  cottage  on  your  way  home  and  bringing  Gertie  with  you  ? 
The  snow  is  so  deep  and  the  walking  so  bad." 

"  I  shall  not  have  time,"  he  answered,  a  little  stiffly,  as  he 
buttoned  his  overcoat,  "  and  then,  you  forget  that  such  people 
do  not  mind  mud  and  snow.  They  are  used  to  it." 


250  GERTIE  AT  THE  HILL. 

He  was  gone  before  Edith  could  utter  a  word,  and  with  a 
swelling  heart  she  watched  him  driving  down  the  avenue,  and 
then  bending  over  the  cradle  of  her  boy,  she  shed  the  first 
really  bitter  tears  she  had  known  since  coming  to  Schuylei 
Hill.  It  is  true  she  had  received  insolence  from  Miss  Rossiter, 
coldness  from  Julia,  and  indifference  from  Alice ;  but  these  had 
weighed  little  when  her  husband's  uniform  kindness  and  con- 
sideration were  in  the  opposite  scale,  and  now  it  seemed  as  if 
he,  too,  were  against  her,  and  for  a  time  she  cried  silently, 
wondering  if  she  had  done  wrong  to  befriend  the  orphan  girl, 
and  if  her  coming  there  would  be  the  beginning  of  discord  be- 
tween herself  and  husband. 

"Mrs.  Schuyler,  please,  may  I  come  in?  It's  I, — Gertie," 
a  soft  voice  said  at  the  door  ;  and  starting  up  Edith  went 
to  meet  the  young  girl,  and  winding  her  arms  around  her,  kissed 
her  lovingly,  while  all  doubts  of  right  and  wrong  were  swept 
away  with  her  first  glance  into  the  bright,  innocent  face,  and 
the  soft  blue  eyes  looking  at  her  so  wonderingly. 

Gertie  had  never  expected  the  carriage  to  come  for  her.  As 
the  colonel  said,  she  was  accustomed  to  mud  and  snow,  and 
had  walked  to  the  Hill  and  entered  at  the  side  door  with 
Norah,  who,  knowing  the  position  she  was  to  occupy  in  the 
house,  took  her  up  stairs  at  once,  and,  pointing  out  her  room, 
left  her,  while  she  went  to  change  her  wet  shoes  and  stockings. 
But  Gertie  could  not  believe  this  pretty  room  was  intended  for 
her.  There  must  be  some  mistake,  she  thought ;  and,  seeing 
the  door  opposite  slightly  ajar,  and  knowing  it  led  into  the 
nursery,  and  that  Mrs.  Schuyler  was  probably  there,  she  ven- 
tured to  knock  and  ask  if  she  might  enter.  There  was  some- 
thing peculiarly  restful  about  Gertie, — something  mesmeric  in 
her  presence,  which  everybody  felt  for  good,  and  which  affected 
Edith  at  once,  making  her  forget  for  a  moment  her  husband's 
words  and  manner. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  have  you  here,  and  this  js  your  room,"  she 
said,  as  she  led  her  into  her  pleasant  chamber.  "  I  wanted 
you  nrar  me  and  baby,  he  is  so  fond  of  you." 

She  icmoved  Gertie's  hood  and  cloak,  and  smoothed  her  rip- 


GERTIE  AT  THE  HILL.  251 

pling  hair,  and  thought  how  pretty  she  was  in  black,  and  won- 
dered where  she  had  seen  an  expression  like  that  which  flashed 
into  the  blue  eyes  and  spread  over  the  bright  face  at  her 
caresses. 

It  was  an  hour  before  dinner,  and  Gertie  spent  the  time  with 
Edith  and  in  playing  with  little  Jamie,  who,  at  sight  of  her,  gave 
a  coo  of  delight,  and  nearly  jumped  into  her  arms.  He  was  an 
active,  playful  child,  and  Gertie  was  sorry  when  the  nurse  came 
to  take  him,  telling  Mrs.  Schuyler  dinner  was  ready.  This  was 
an  ordeal  Gertie  dreaded,  and  in  a  kind  of  nervous  terror  she 
cried,  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Schuyler,  I  wish  I  did  not  have  to  go  down. 
Can't  I  stay  here  and  eat  by  myself?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  Edith  replied,  knowing  the  while  that  such 
a  thing  would  be  highly  satisfactory  to  one  of  the  young  ladies, 
at  least,  and  possibly  to  her  husband,  but,  nevertheless,  being 
fully  resolved  that  every  privilege  of  the  house,  whether  great 
or  small,  should  be  awarded  to  her  protegee.  "  Certainly  not, 
you  are  one  of  us  now.  You  are  my  little  girl ;  "  and  she 
passed  her  arm  caressingly  around  the  child.  "  Watch  me,  if 
you  like,  and  do  what  you  see  me  do." 

Thus  reassured,  Gertie  entered  the  long  dining-room  with  as 
much  self-possession  as  if  she  had  done  the  same  thing  every 
day  of  her  life. 

"  Oh,  Gertie,  how  do  you  do  ?  And  so  you  are  come  to  live 
with  us,"  Emma  said,  kindly,  as  she  came  in,  and  offering  her 
hand  she  took  her  seat  at  the  table,  and  did  not  once  seem  to 
look  at  Gertie,  whose  feelings  she  wished  to  spare  as  much  as 
possible. 

With  Julia  it  was  different.  She  called  herself  a  lady,  versed 
in  every  point  of  politeness  and  breeding,  and  yet  she  could 
deliberately  stoop  to  wound  a  girl  who  had  never  injured  her, 
and  whose  only  crime  was  her  poverty.  Arrayed  in  her  longest 
train  of  dark  blue  silk,  her  hair  in  the  very  latest  style,  as  re- 
ported by  Alice  Creighton,  who  was  then  in  New  York,  she 
swept  haughtily  into  the  room,  and  with  a  slight  inclination  of 
her  head  to  Edith,  and  a  slighter  one  to  Gertie,  took  her  seat, 
and  while  the  soup,  which  she  never  took,  was  serving,  occu- 


25 2  GERTTE  AT   THE  fffLL. 

pied  herself  with  a  French  novel,  occasionally  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  Gertie,  who  was  made  very  uncomfortable  in  conse- 
quence. 

Colonel  Schuyler  had  not  yet  returned  from  town,  but  he 
came  before  dinner  was  over.  He  was  very  sorry  for  the  un- 
graciousness of  his  manner  when  talking  with  his  wife  of  Gertie, 
and  the  pained  expression  of  her  face  had  haunted  him  all 
the  afternoon,  and  been  the  cause  of  his  driving  round  by  the 
cottage  on  his  way  home. 

"  I  can  at  least  do  that,"  he  thought ;  "  and  the  roads  are 
worse  than  I  supposed." 

But  the  cottage  was  empty,  and  the  colonel  drove  home 
alone,  resolving  to  be  very  kind  to  the  orphan  girl  for  Edith's 
sake  and  conquer  all  his  fears  for  Godfrey  until  he  saw  some- 
thing tangible,  when  it  would  be  time  to  act.  So  when  he  en- 
tered the  dining-room  and  met  Gertie's  eyes  raised  so  timidly 
to  his,  he  went  to  her,  and  offering  her  his  hand,  bade  her  wel- 
come to  his  house,  and  said  : 

"  I  drove  to  the  cottage  for  you,  but  was  too  late.  I  fear 
you  found  the  walking  very  bad  ?  " 

She  had  not  minded  it,  she  said,  while  the  beaming  glance 
which  Edith  gave  him  told  him  that  his  peace  was  made  with 
her,  and  he  became  exceedingly  urbane,  and  even  talkative, 
and  addressing  some  pleasant  remarks  to  Gertie,  made  her  feel 
more  at  ease,  if  possible,  than  Edith's  reassuring  words  had  done. 
She  was  very  pretty,  and  graceful,  and  modest,  and  he  watched 
her  movements  with  an  interest  he  could  not  define,  and  com- 
pared her  with  Alice  Creighton  and  his  own  daughters,  who,  so 
far  as  beauty  was  concerned,  fell  far  in  the  scale. 

Emma  was  very  kind  to  her,  and  paid  her  several  little  atten- 
tions during  the  evening,  but  Julia  preserved  the  same  haughty 
demeanor  she  had  at  first  assumed,  and  never  spoke  to  her  or 
noticed  her  in  any  way.  When  she  had  once  conceived  a  pre- 
judice, it  was  very  strong,  and  that  night,  after  retiring  to  her 
room,  she  wrote  to  her  aunt  Christine  of  this  "last  indignity  put 
upon  them,"  and  wished  that  she  was  emancipated  from  school 
like  Alice,  and  could  leave  the  home  which  seemed  like  home 


GERTIE  AT  THE  HILL.  253 

no  longer.  On  the  receipt  of  this  letter  Miss  Rossiter  wrote  to 
her  brother-in-law,  saying  she  had  heard  of  nis  kindness  in 
giving  Gertie  VVestbrooke  a  home  until  something  could  be 
done  for  her,  and  adding  that  she  had  in  her  mind  a  plan  which 
would  relieve  him  of  the  girl  and  benefit  the  child  as  well. 
She  was  wanting  a  little  maid  to  be  with  her  constantly,  and 
Gertie  would  do  nicely  after  a  little  training. 

"  I  believe  your  wife  has  some  Quixotic  idea  of  educating 
her,"  she  added,  in  conclusion,  "  and  without  giving  my  opinion 
in  full  with  regard  to  elevating  that  class  of  people,  I  will  say 
that  if  the  girl  comes  to  me  I  shall  myself  teach  her  an  hour 
each  day,  which  I  consider  all  that  is  necessary,  with  what  she 
already  knows.  I  hope  you  will  send  her  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble, for  Alice  is  to  stay  with  me  through  Lent  so  as  to  be 
near  St.  Alban's,  and  between  us  we  shall  need  an  extra 
maid." 

What  effect  this  letter  would  have  had  upon  the  colonel  had 
he  received  it  under  ordinary  circumstances,  I  do  not  know. 
As  it  was,  it  remained  unopened  for  many  days,  while  in  an 
agony  of  anxiety  he  watched  his  baby  boy,  who  lay  almost  con- 
stantly in  Gertie's  arms,  its  little  hand  holding  fast  to  hers  as  if 
fearful  of  losing  her.  It  was  scarlet  fever  in  its  most  malignant 
form,  and  at  the  very  first  alarm,  Julia,  who  was  afraid  of  disease 
in  any  form,  fled  to  her  own  chamber,  where,  like  a  true  niece  of 
her  aunt,  she  burned  tar  and  kept  chloride  of  lime  as  a  disin- 
fectant, and  never  went  near  the  room  where  her  baby  brother 
was  dying.  Even  the  wet-nurse  shrank  from  the  fever-smitten 
child,  fearing  for  the  safety  of  her  own  little  nurseling.  But 
Gertie  knew  no  fear,  and  from  the  moment  little  Jamie  opened 
his  heavy  eyes  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and  raised  his  hands  to 
her  with  the  shadow  of  a  smile  on  his  face,  she  stood  by  him 
day  and  night  and  held  him  at  the  very  last  upon  her  lap,  hers 
the  last  voice  which  spoke  words  of  endearment  to  him,  and 
hers  the  last  lips  which  touched  his  in  life,  for  Edith  was  faint- 
ing in  the  adjoining  room,  and  the  colonel  in  his  anxiety  for  her 
did  not  know  the  end  had  come  till  he  saw  Gertie  fold  the  child 
to  her  breast,  while  amid  a  rain  of  tears  she  said  :  "  Poor  Jamie 


254  GERTIE  AT   THE  HILL. 

is  in  heaven  now ; "  then  she  laid  him  gently  back  in  his  crib, 
and  the  colonel  knew  his  boy  was  dead. 

They  telegraphed  for  Godfrey,  and  the  house  was  hung  with 
mourning,  and  Julia  stayed  in  her  room  and  wondered  if  she 
would  have  to  wear  black,  and  Emma  cried  herself  sick,  and 
Edith  sat  motionless  as  a  stone  beside  her  dead  baby,  with  a 
look  of  unutterable  anguish  on  her  face  and  no  power  to  speak 
even  had  she  wished  it,  for  the  iron  hand  was  on  her  throat,  and 
her  heart  was  breaking  for  more  than  the  dead  child  beside  her. 

Who  had  tended  the  death-bed  of  that  other  one  ?  Who  had 
folded  the  little  hands  upon  the  bosom  as  Jamie's  were  folded  ? 
Who  had  curled  the  rings  of  golden  hair  as  Jamie's  were  curled  ? 
And  who  had  kissed  the  pretty  lips  as  she  kissed  these  before 
her?  Nobody, — nobody.  Hospital  nurses  had  no  time  for  tears 
or  caresses  ;  strangers  had  buried  her  baby  girl,  and  she,  the 
mother,  had  made  no  sign,  either  then  or  since,  and  God  was 
punishing  her  for  it,  and  her  heart  was  broken  in  twain  as  she 
sat,  white,  and  still,  and  speechless,  while  her  husband  tried  to 
comfort  her. 

Then  it  was  that  Gertie  thought  of  everything.  Gertie  carried 
messages  to  and  from  Miss  Julia,  who  unbent  to  her  now  that 
she  could  make  her  useful ;  Gertie  comforted  poor  Emma ; 
Gertie  anticipated  the  colonel's  wishes  before  they  were  spoken, 
and  Gertie  took  the  white  flowers  from  the  conservatory,  and 
putting  them  on  baby's  pillow,  laid  her  hand  pityingly  on  the 
bowed  head  of  Edith,  who  moved  at  the  touch,  and  looking  up, 
saw  the  flowers  upon  the  pillow  and  the  girl  who  had  laid  them 
there.  Then  the  iron  hand  relaxed  a  little  and  Edith  gasped, 
"  Oh,  Gertie,  my  child,  my  little  one,"  while  the  first  tears  she 
had  shed  began  to  fall  like  rain  and  her  body  shook  with  sobs, 
which  did  her  good,  for  she  was  better  after  the  outburst,  though 
she  would  not  leave  the  room  until  her  husband  took  her  away 
and  put  her  in  her  bed,  where  she  lay  utterly  helpless  and  pros- 
trate while  they  buried  her  boy  from  her  sight. 

Godfrey  came  to  the  funeral  and  saw  his  little  brother  first  in 
his  coffin,  and  was  very  decorous,  and  grave,  and  kind  to  both 
his  sisters,  and  respectful  to  his  father,  and  solicitous  about 


GERTIE  AT   THE  HILL.  255 

Edith,  and  attentive  to  Gertie,  whom  he  called  the  sunbeam  in 
the  house. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  should  do  without  you  now,  and  I 
am  so  glad  you  are  here,"  he  said  to  her,  on  the  morning  after 
the  funeral,  when  he  stood  with  her  a  moment  by  the  window  of 
the  drawing-room,  and  thought  how  pretty  she  was,  and  how 
womanly  she  had  grown  within  the  last  six  months. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Gertie  ?  "  he  asked  ;  and  when  she  told 
him  fourteen  last  January,  he  continued  :  u  Almost  a  young 
lady.  I  shall  have  to  hurry  up  and  get  to  be  that  perfect  gentle- 
man whom  you  are  to  reward  with  a  kiss,  or  you  will  be  re- 
fusing to  pay  ;  eh,  Gertie  ?  " 

He  spoke  playfully  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  her  hair, 
while  a  beautiful  blush  broke  over  the  face  which  was  upturned 
to  his,  when  a  stern  voice  called  : 

"  Godfrey,  my  son,  I  want  you  ;  "  and  Colonel  Schnyler  stood 
in  the  door,  with  a  stern  look  of  disapproval  in  his  eyes. 

The  colonel  had  read  Miss  Rossiter's  letter  that  morning,  and 
tearing  it  in  a  dozen  pieces,  had  answered,  saying  that  the  girl 
who  had  been  so  much  to  his  lost  boy,  and  was  so  much  to  his 
dear  wife,  would  henceforth  be  his  special  care,  and  that  if  Miss 
Christine  wanted  a  waiting-maid  she  must  look  elsewhere,  as 
she  could  not  have  Gertie  Westbrooke.  This  letter  he  had 
sent  to  the  post ;  nor  was  he  sorry  for  it  even  when  he  came  so 
unexpectedly  upon  his  son  and  fancied  far  more  than  he  saw. 

Gertie  was  too  closely  connected  with  his  dead  boy  for  him 
to  cast  her  off;  but  he  could  not  keep  her  there,  and  on  the 
instant  he  formed  the  plan  that  she '  should  be  educated  away 
from  Schuyler  Hill,  where  Godfrey  could  not  see  her  until  mat- 
ters between  him  and  Alice  were  finally  adjusted,  and  he  had 
outgrown  any  boyish  fancy  he  might  entertain  for  this  child. 

He  had  meant  at  first  to  keep  Godfrey  for  a  few  days,  but  he 
sent  him  back  at  once,  and  as  soon  as  Edith  could  bear  it,  told 
her  of  his  decision  with  regard  to  Gertie,  and  told  her  in  such 
a  way  that  she  did  not  venture  to  oppose  him,  though  her  heart 
ached  with  a  new  pain  as  she  thought  of  losing  the  girl  who 
seemed  so  verv  near  to  her.  After  many  inquiries  it  was  de- 


256  AFTER  FOUR    YEARS. 

cided  that  the  Misses  H 's  school  in  Buffalo  was  the  place 

for  Gertie,  inasmuch  as  the  training  there  was  very  thorough  ; 
and  when  in  the  spring  Godfrey  came  home  for  a  short  vaca- 
tion, bringing  Macpherson  with  him,  he  was  told  that  Gertie 
was  in  Buffalo  fitting  for  a  teacher. 
s 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

AFTER    FOUR   YEARS. 

"  Silently  as  the  spring-time 

Its  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 
And  all  the  trees,  on  all  the  hills, 
Open  their  thousand  leaves  " — 

ijO,  silently  fled  the  next  four  years,  and  I  come  now 
to  the  glorious  day  when  summer  was  everywhere,  from 
the  perfume  of  the  new-mown  hay  on  the  lawn  to  the 
golden  flecks  of  sunshine  on  the  river,  and  the  musical  hum  of 
happy  animal  life  heard  on  every  side. 

I  had  been  an  invalid  for  a  long  time,  and  had  mingled  but 
little  with  the  outer  world.  With  the  affairs  at  Schuyler  Hill, 
however,  I  was  pretty  well  acquainted,  for  Edith  and  I  were 
great  friends  now.  At  first  she  had  stood  aloof  from  me,  but 
when  she  heard  of  my  illness,  she  came  at  once,  and,  with 
kind  words  and  many  delicate  attentions,  made  my  life  far  hap- 
pier than  it  could  have  been  without  her.  After  the  little  grave 
was  made  under  the  evergreen  and  Gertie  went  away,  she  came 
to  me  oftener,  and,  during  the  long  rides  which  we  took  to- 
gether in  her  pretty  phaeton,  she  told  me  much  of  her  life  at 
Schuyler  Hill.  A  very  happy  life  it  had  been  for  the  most  part, 
though  it  had  its  dark  side,  as  what  life  has  not  ?  Miss  Rossi- 
ter  had  been  a  trouble  while  she  stayed,  and,  even  after  she 
was  gone,  her  influence  was  felt  in  Julia's  fitful  moods  and  pe- 
culiar temper  after  the  receipt  of  the  letters,  in  which  allusions 
were  always  made  to  "  that  woman  who  has  usurped  your  poor 
dear  mother's  place." 


AFTER  FOUR    YEARS.  257 

And  still  Miss  "Rossiter  came  every  summer  to  the  Hill,  and 
stayed  a  month  or  six  weeks,  and  took  upon  herself  such  in- 
sufferable airs  that  Edith  was  glad  when  she  was  gone,  and 
made  the  day  of  her  departure  a  sort  of  jubilee. 

Julia  was  now  nearly  twenty-two,  and  very  handsome  it  was 
thought,  though  her  beauty  was  of  that  dark,  bold,  dashing  style 
which  I  did  not  admire.  Emma,  with  her  paleness  and  light 
brown  hair,  suited  me  better ;  for  there  was  a  sweet,  gentle  ex- 
pression in  her  face,  while  in  grace  of  manner  and  form  she  far 
excelled  her  haughty  sister,  who  patronized  her  generally. 

Since  their  coming  out  neither  of  the  young  ladies  had  been 
much  at  home,  and  we  missed  the  style,  and  dash,  and  city  airs 
which  they  used  to  bring  us,  and  had  only  Rosamond  Barton 
and  Mrs.  Schuyler  to  admire  and  copy, — except,  indeed,  on  the 
rare  occasions  when  Gertie  was  allowed  to  pass  her  vacations 
in  Hampstead.  I  say  allowed,  for  the  colonel  managed  so 
adroitly  that  she  never  came  to  Schuyler  Hill  when  Godfrey 
was  there  or  expected,  but  spent  her  vacations  elsewhere  in 
happy  ignorance  of  the  real  reason  for  her  banishment. 

And  so  we  did  not  see  her  often  in  our  quiet  town ;  but  when 
we  had  her  with  us  it  was  a  season  of  rejoicing,  and  we  made 
the  most  of  it.  How  I  used  to  wait  and  listen  for  the  rapid 
step  and  the  clear,  ringing  voice,  which  always  set  my  heart 
throbbing,  and  did  me  so  much  good.  I  did  not  wonder  that 
everybody  loved  her,  from  old  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen  in  the 
Hollow,  to  Tom  Barton  on  the  Ridge,  and  when  the  former 
brought  me  fresh  eggs  for  my  breakfast,  and  told  me  with  a 
beaming  face  that  "  her  young  lady  came  home  last  night  look- 
ing handsomer  than  ever,"  I  knew  she  meant  Gertie  West- 
brooke ;  and  when  Tom  Barton  looked  in  and  said,  with  a 
falter  in  his  voice,  "She  went  this  morning,"  I  knew  that  he 
meant  Gertie,  too,  and  pitied  him  for  the  hope  he  was  cherish- 
ing, and  which  I  was  sure  would  never  be  fulfilled. 

Since  the  memorable  day  when  Mary  Rogers  spoke  so  boldly 
for  the  child  whom  she  would  not  have  compromised  by  so 
much  as  a  breath  of  gossip,  Tom  Barton  had  kept  his  promise, 
and  guarded  the  little  girl  as  carefully  as  if  she  had  been  his 


258  AFTER  FOUR    YEARS. 

sister,  until  she  ceased  to  be  a  little  girl,  and 'he  saw  her  in  all 
the  bright  loveliness  of  sixteen,  and  then  Tom  went  down  be- 
fore her  charms,  and  asked  her  to  quit  school,  and  be  his  wife, 
and  live  with  him  at  the  Ridge,  and  snub  Miss  Julia  Schuyler 
as  she  had  been  snubbed  by  her. 

"  No,  Mr.  Barton,  I  cannot  be  your  wife.  No  girl  would  be 
that,  if  she  loved  you  ever  so  much,"  Gertie  had  answered,  fear- 
lessly, while  Tom  blushed  painfully,  and  knew  just  what  she 
meant,  and  swore  he  would  reform,  and  not  look  so  much  like 
a  walking  beer-barrel. 

And  he  did  try  to  reform,  and  took  the  pledge,  and  broke  it 
in  three  weeks,  and  had  the  delirium  tremens,  and  saw  all 
manner  of  snakes  twisting  themselves  around  Gertie  Westbrooke, 
on  whom  he  called  piteously  in  his  agony.  Then  he  took  the 
pledge  again,  and  kept  it,  and  gradually  the  high  color  left  his 
face,  and  his  figure  began  to  assume  a  better  shape,  and  his 
clothes  were  not  so  tight,  and  he  came  to  see  me  so  often  that 
the  meddlesome  ones  in  town  wondered  if  old  Ettie  Armstrong 
could  be  foolish  enough  to  think  that  boy  wanted  anything  of 
her! 

"  Why,  she  is  forty  at  least,"  good  Mrs.  Smithers  said,  aver- 
ring that  she  knew,  because  the  day  I  was  born  their  bees 
swarmed,  and  her  husband  broke  his  neck  trying  to  saw  oft"  the 
limb  where  they  had  settled. 

Of  course  such  evidence  was  unanswerable,  but  as  I  knew 
just  how  old  I  was.  and  why  Tom  Barton  visited  me  so  often, 
I  did  not  care  to  contradict  the  story  of  the  bees,  and  I  Jet  Tom 
Barton  come  whenever  he  pleased  to  talk  of  his  "  best  girl,"  as 
he  called  her,  and  to  keep  him  from  the  "  Golden  Eagle,"  the 
low  tavern  where  he  had  slipped  so  often. 

At  last,  however,  Gertie's  education  was  finished,  and  she 
came  home  to  stay,  and  the  colonel  welcomed  her  kindly,  and 
thought  how  beautiful  she  was,  and  felt  his  blood  stir  a  little 
when  she  raised  herself  on  tip-toe  and  kissed  him  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Julia  never  did  that  and  Emma  but  seldom,  while 
Edith  kept  most  of  her  kisses  now  for  the  two-year-old  boy 
Arthur,  so  that  the  cold,  reserved  man  was  not  much  used  to 


AFTER  FOUR    YEARS.  259 

kisses  of  late,  and  felt  the  touch  of  Gertie's  lips  for  hours,  and 
caught  himself  contrasting  her  with  Alice  Creighton,  whom  he 
had  last  seen  so  elaborately  dressed  with  powder  on  her  face 
and  every  hair  seeming  to  stand  on  end.  But  thirty  thousand 
a  year  covers  many  defects,  and  Alice  was  still  the  colonel's 
ideal  of  a  daughter-in-law  when  he  welcomed  Gertie  home. 

She  had  been  there  three  months,  and  on  the  June  morning 
of  which  I  write  I  was  going  up  to  call  upon  her  for  the  first 
time  since  her  return.  I  found  her  in  the  garden,  in  her  big 
sun-hat  and  heavy  gloves,  cutting  and  arranging  flowers  with 
which  to  decorate  the  house,  for  a  party  of  young  people  was 
coming  from  New  York  that  day,  and  everything  and  every- 
body was  in  a  great  state  of  expectancy.  During  the  last  year 
and  a  half  Robert  Macpherson  had  been  in  Europe  looking 
after  his  inheritance,  which  by  the  death  of  some  one  had  come 
indisputably  to  him  at  last.  Several  times  he  had  written  to 
Godfrey  urging  him  to  cross  the  ocean  with  his  sisters  and  Miss 
Creighton,  and  visit  him  in  his  Highland  home  ;  and  as  nothing 
could  please  the  young  ladies  better,  the  party  had  sailed  for 
Europe  in  time  to  keep  the  Easter  festival  at  Glenthorpe,  Rob- 
ert's handsome  country-seat.  But  they  had  now  returned  to 
New  York,  and  Robert  Macpherson  was  with  them,  and  for  a 
week  or  more  they  had  been  stopping  with  Miss  Rossiter  and 
waiting  for  Rosamond  Barton,  who  was  to  accompaify  them  to 
Hampstead.  It  was  two  years  since  Godfrey  was  graduated, 
and  since  that  time  he  had  been  studying  his  profession  in  the 
city  until  he  went  with  his  sisters  for  a  short  vacation  to  Europe. 

"  Only  think,  I  have  not  seen  Godfrey  for  more  than  four 
years,  and  have  almost  forgotten  how  he  looks,"  Gertie  said, 
after  welcoming  me  to  the  garden,  and  telling  me  of  the  ex- 
pected guests.  "  It  is  queer  that  I  have  not  seen  him,  but  he 
never  happened  to  be  home  when  I  was,"  she  continued,  as  she 
gathered  up  the  bouquets  and  went  with  me  to  the  house,  where 
she  began  to  distribute  the  flowers,  putting  the  most,  I  noticed, 
in  Godfrey's  room,  and  seeming  more  interested  in  that  than  in 
all  the  others. 

Edith  was  in  her  nursery,  and  when  Gertie's  decorations  were 


260  AFTER  FOUR    YEARS. 

completed  and  she  came  and  stood  by  her,  I  was  struck  as  I 
had  been  more  than  once  before  by  their  resemblance  to  each 
other. 

They  certainly  might  have  been  sisters,  though  Gertie  was  in 
her  sweet  spring-time  and  Edith  in  the  fulness  of  her  summer. 
Time  had  dealt  lightly  with  her,  and  she  looked  scarcely  older 
than  when  she  came  a  bride  to  Schuyler  Hill.  She  was  very 
happy,  too,  though  I  saw  she  dreaded  the  coming  of  the  young 
people  from  New  York.  But  not  for  herself.  She  had  reached 
a  height  where  neither  Alice's  haughtiness,  nor  Julia's  arrogance, 
nor  Miss  Rossiteijs  insolence,  could  touch  her.  She  was  only 
anxious  for  Gertie,  who  might  be  treated  coldly,  if  not  rudely, 
by  some  of  the  party.  And  when  she  remembered  the  fear  which 
had  for  so  many  years  influenced  every  act  of  her  husband  to- 
ward Gertie,  and,  looking  at  the  beautiful  girl,  remembered 
what  Godfrey  was,  she  trembled,  notwithstanding  the  piece  of 
news  which  she  had  heaui  the  previous  night,  and  which  she 
communicated  to  me,  with  Gertie  sitting  in  the  deep  window 
fanning  herself  with  her  garden  hat,  and  rubbing  the  scratch  she 
had  received  among  the  roses. 

"By  the  way,"  Edith  said,  "the  colonel  had  a  letter  from 
Godfrey  last  night,  and  it  seems  the  engagement  he  has  so  long 
desired  has  at  last  come  about." 

"  Whose  engagement  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Godfrey's  and  Miss  Creighton's." 

"  I  supposed  that  was  settled  long  ago." 

"  It  was  by  the  parents,  but  not  by  the  parties  most  inter- 
ested. Godfrey  has  never  manifested  any  great  degree  of 
fervor,  and  has  rather  made  light  of  it,  I  think  ;  but  it  is  done 
now,  and  they  will  be  married  as  soon  as  he  gets  his  profession, 
possibly  sooner.  The  colonel  is  greatly  rejoiced." 

I  glanced  at  Gertie,  still  rubbing  and  blowing  the  scratch  on 
her  hand,  but  if  the  news  of  Godfrey's  approaching  marriage 
produced  any  effect  upon  her  it  was  not  visible.  Her  blight 
color  was  just  as  bright  and  her  blue  eyes  just  as  placid  in  their 
expression,  unless,  indeed,  there  was  a  little  wonder  in  them  as 
she  looked  up  quickly  and  said  : 


THE    TRAVELLERS.  261 

"  A  newly  engaged  couple, — won't  that  be  nice  ?  How  do 
you  suppose  Mr.  Godfrey  will  act  as  an  engaged  man  ?  I  al 
ways  think  of  him  as  a  boy,  and  still  he  must  be  twenty-four." 

And  yet  in  her  heart  there  was  a  shadow  of  regret  that  God- 
frey should  be  wasted  upon  Alice  Creighton,  who  never  liked 
her,  and'who  might  make  Godfrey  dislike  her,  too. 

"  She  shall  not  do  that,"  she  thought,  when  alone  in  her  own 
room  she  was  reflecting  upon  the  news  which  had  dimmed 
somewhat  the  brightness  of  the  day.  "  I'll  be  so  kind  and 
good  to  her  that  she  cannot  help  liking  me,  and  so  I'll  gain  her 
friendship  instead  of  losing  Godfrey's." 

With  this  end  in  view,  she  transferred  a  part  of  the  flowers 
from  Godfrey's  room  to  that  of  his  fiancee,  where  she  re- 
arranged the  furniture,  and  into  which  she  brought  her  own 
handsome  reading  chair,  Edith's  gift  on  her  last  birthday.  Re- 
membering Alice's  indolent,  lounging  habits,  and  how  much  she 
was  addicted  to  what  Godfrey  called  "  lying  around  loose,"  she 
knew  the  chair  would  just  suit  the  languid  little  lady,  and 
placed  it  by  the  window  where  the  finest  view  of  the  river  was 
to  be  had.  Later  in  the  day  she  dressed  herself  for  the  evening 
and  wore  her  prettiest  white  muslin,  with  the  fluted  ruffles  and 
ribbons  of  blue,  and  then  went  down  to  the  piazza  where  the 
colonel  and  Edith  were  waiting  for  their  guests. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

THE    TRAVELLERS, 

ERE  Miss  Creighton,  Miss  Schuyler,  Miss  Emma 
Schuyler,  Miss  Barton,  Godfrey,  Robert  and  Tom ; 
and  they  made  a  very  merry  party  as  they  entered  the 
car  at  the  Thirty-first  Street  station,  and  with  their  dash  and 
style  and  self-assurance  of  manner  seemed  to  take  entire  posses- 
sion of  the  road  and  ignore  the  presence  of  every  one. 

"  Three  gentlemen  to  four  ladies  ;  that's  lucky  for  one  of 
us,"  Tom  Barton  said,  as  he  quietly  appropriated  his  sister  and 


262  THE    TRAVELLERS. 

Emma  Schuyler  to  himself,  leaving  Julia  as  a  matter  of  course 
to  Robert  Macpherson,  and  Alice  to  her  betrothed. 

Good-natured  Tom  did  not  care  a  picayune  with  whom  he 
talked  or  sat,  so  long  as  he  knew  he  was  to  dine  at  Schuyler 
Hill,  and  see  Gertie  with  the  wonderful  eyes  and  hair,  and  the 
shy  drooping  of  her  lids  and  the  bright  color  coining  arid  going 
in  her  face  just  as  it  did  when  she  told  him  there  was  no  hope, 
but  bade  him  be  a  man  all  the  same  for  her  sake  and  the  sake 
of  the  fair  girl  he  would  find  some  day  to  take  her  place  in  his 
heart.  Tom  knew  he  shouldn't  find  the  girl,  but  he  was  trying 
to  be  a  man,  and  even  Julia  Schuyler  tolerated  him  now,  and 
divided  her  coquetries  between  him  and  Robert  Macpherson, 
who  was  unusually  quiet  and  studied  the  scenery  from  the  win- 
dow more  than  he  did  the  dark,  handsome  face  beside  him. 

Alice  was  satisfied  to  talk  with  Godfrey,  and  no  one  in  the 
car  who  watched  her  could  help  guessing  what  he  was  to  her, 
or  that  she  was  more  delighted  with  the  state  of  affairs  than  he. 
Alice  was  not  Godfrey's  choice,  though  he  was  engaged  to  her, 
and  had  been  for  four  days,  during  which  time  she  had  made 
the  most  of  her  new  dignity,  and  shown  her  lover  to  as  many 
of  her  friends  as  possible,  and  chosen  her  own  engagement 
ring,  and  looked  at  a  corner  house  far  up  town,  which  she 
wished  Godfrey  to  secure  at  any  cost,  as  her  heart  was  set  upon 
it.  And  Godfrey  acquiesced  in  everything,  and  got  the  refusal 
of  the  house,  and  went  with  her  to  look  at  some  rare  bronzes 
and  a  $5,000  painting,  on  which  her  heart  was  also  set,  and 
played  the  devoted  lover  as  well  as  he  could,  with  no  shadow 
of  genuine  love  in  the  whole  affair  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
How  he  came  to  be  engaged  he  hardly  knew,  except  that  his 
father  desired  it,  while  Alice  herself  expected  it,  and  people  had 
talked  of  it  so  long  that  he  had  gradually  come  to  consider  it 
as  something  he  must  take  as  a  matter  of  course,  just  as  he  took 
the  measles,  and  the  mumps,  and  the  chicken-pox.  And  yet 
it  was  very  sudden  at  the  last.  "  A  word  and  a  blow,"  he  said 
to  Robert,  who  asked  why  he  looked  so  white  when,  after  the 
deed  was  done,  he  went  to  call  on  his  friend  at  the  hotel. 

"  White,"  Godfrey  replied.     "  I  guess  you'd  be  white,  too,  if 


THE    TRAVELLERS.  263 

you'd  been  and  gone  and  got  engaged  as  I  have  !  Why,  Bob, 
I  feel  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  little  shaver,  and  swallowed  a  rusty 
copper,  and  Aunt  Christine  slapped  me  on  the  back,  till  the 
copper  flew  half-way  across  the  room,  and  I  was  black  as  your 
hat.  I  say,  Bob,  hit  me  a  cut  or  two,  and  see  if  I  can't  throw 
this  up." 

With  a  merry  laugh  Robert  replied  : 

"  I  don't  believe  you'll  throw  up  thirty  thousand  a  year  as 
easily  as  you  did  the  rusty  copper ;  but  tell  me  about  it.  How 
did  it  happen,  and  when  ?  " 

"Why,  you  see,"  Godfrey  rejoined,  "I  always  supposed  it 
would  have  to  come,  father  was  so  anxious,  and  mother,  too, 
before  she  died ;  but  I  guess  a  chap  is  never  in  a  hurry  to  take 
what  he  is  sure  of,  and  I've  staved  it  off,  and  never  even  looked 
love  at  her,  except  in  a  joking  way,  until  this  morning,  when  I 
went  to  call  upon  her  at  Uncle  Calvert's,  and  found  her  so  pale 
and  pensive,  the  result  of  that  abominable  sea-sickness,  from 
which  you  know  she  suffered  the  voyage  home.  Now  there  is 
nothing  strikes  to  my  stomach  quite  so  quick  as  sea-sickness, 
and  I  felt  sorry  for  her,  and  when  she  told  me  how  lonesome 
she  was  at  Uncle  Calvert's,  with  the  everlasting  din  of  those  street 
cars  in  her  ears,  and  cried  a  little,  why,  I — I — I  began  to  feel 
kind  of,  well,  just  as  any  chap  would  feel  sitting  by  a  nice  girl, 
who,  he  knows,  expects  to  marry  him,  with  a  tear  running  down 
the  side  of  her  nose,  and  so  it  was  very  easy  for  me  to  pick  up 
her  fat,  white  hands, — she  has  pretty  hands, — and  pat  them  a 
little,  and  say  :  '  Suppose  we  get  married,  Alice,  and  then  you 
can  live  with  me,  and  not  have  to  stay  in  this  poky  house. 
Shall  we,  Alice  ? ' " 

"  'Yes,  Godfrey,'  she  said,  and  then, — well,  I'll  leave  some- 
thing to  your  imagination,  only  the  thing  is  settled,  and  we  are 
to  go  to  Tiffany's  this  afternoon  and  get  the  ring,  and  to-morrow 
we  look  at  that  show-house  up  town,  which  Larkin  built  and 
failed  in,  and  I  am  to  write  to  father,  and  the  news  will  be  over 
Hampstead  when  we  get  there,  and  I  feel,  as  I  told  you,  much 
as  I  did  when  I  swallowed  the  cent  ! " 

This  was  Godfrey's  account  of  his  engagement,  from  which 


264  THE    TRAVELLERS. 

the  reader  will  infer  that  so  far  as  his  heart  was  concerned  there 
was  very  little  of  it  in  the  matter.  But  he  did  not  love  any  one 
else,  and  that  was  in  Alice's  favor  ;  and  she  managed  him  sc 
adroitly  that  he  made  a  very  well  behaved  lover,  deferring  to  all 
her  wishes,  and  treating  her  with  attention,  and  even  a  show  of 
tenderness  when  the)'  were  alone. 

Once,  on  the  day  before  they  went  to  Hampstead,  Robert 
said  to  him  : 

"  By  the  way,  Schuyler,  is  '  La  Sceur '  at  the  Hill  ?  " 

"  '  La  Sxur  !  '  Gertie,  you  mean,"  Godfrey  replied.  "  I 
really  do  not  know  whether  she  has  left  school  or  not.  Nobody 
ever  mentions  her  in  any  of  their  letters,  and  I've  lost  track  of 
her  entirely.  I  wrote  to  her  two  or  three  times  when  she  first 
went  off  to  school,  but  she  did  not  answer,  and  so  I  gave  it  up. 
Why,  it's  four  years  and  a  half  since  I  saw  her.  She  must  be  a 
young  lady  by  this  time.  I  say,  Bob,  do  you  suppose  she  is  as 
sweet  and  pretty  now  as  she  was  when  you  painted  that  pic- 
ture ?  I  thought  her  then  the  daintiest  creature  I  had  ever 
seen." 

Before  Robert  could  reply  there  was  a  knock  on  the  door, 
and  Tom  Barton  was  ushered  in.  He  had  come  from  Hamp- 
stead by  the  morning  train,  and  called  to  see  his  old  friends 
when  he  learned  where  they  were.  With  Gertie  fresh  in  his 
mind,  Godfrey  said  to  him  : 

"  Barton,  do  you  know  if  that  little  girl  we  almost  pulled  caps 
over  once  is  at  the  Hill  now  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  Miss  Westbrooke  ?  "  Tom  said,  in  a  tone 
which  made  Godfrey  turn  quickly  to  look  at  him,  while  a  sus- 
picion which  hurt  him  strangely  flashed  through  his  mind. 

"Yes,  I  mean  Miss  Westbrooke.  She  is  a  young  lady  now, 
I  suppose.  Is  she  at  home,  and  pretty  as  ever  ?  " 

Tom  had  heard  from  his  sister  of  Godfrey's  engagement,  and 
as  the  world  had  long  ago  given  Robert  Macpherson  to  Julia 
Schuyler,  he  had  nothing  to  dread  from  either,  and  launched  forth 
at  once  into  praises  of  Gertie  Westbrooke,  the  most  beautiful 
creature  upon  whom  the  sun  ever  shone,  as  well  as  the  purest, 
and  sweetest,  and  best. 


THE    TRAVELLERS.  265 

"Why,  there  is  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  Hampstead 
that  would  not  fall  down  and  worship  her  if  she  wished  it." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Tom,  you  must  be  far  gone,"  Godfrey  said, 
with  that  little  hurt  still  in  his  heart.  "  I  should  not  wonder  if 
you  and  I  were  in  the  same  boat,  eh  ?  " 

He  looked  curiously  at  Tom,  who  answered  him  frankly  and 
sadly  withal : 

"  No,  Godfrey,  she  won't  have  a  drunken  dog  like  me.  She 
told  me  so  herself, — not  in  those  words,  to  be  sure,  but  in  the 
sweet,  gentle  way  she  has  of  telling  the  truth  for  one's  good.  I 
swore  then  I'd  reform,  and  1  have  not  been  drunk  in  a  year, 
and  if  I  ever  am  a  man  again,  it  will  be  Gertie  Westbrooke  who 
saved  me,  Heaven  bless  her  !  " 

There  was  a  tremor  in  Tom's  voice  as  he  said  this,  and  then 
added,  abruptly  : 

"  Yes,  she's  at  the  Hill.     You'll  see  her  when  you  get  home." 

And  so  when  Godfrey  sat  at  last  in  the  railway  car  beside  his 
betrothed,  to  whom  he  paid  the  attentions  she  required  of  him, 
his  thoughts  were  not  so  much  with  her  as  with  the  girl  at  Schuy- 
ler  Hill,  whom  every  man,  woman  and  child  admired,  if  Tom's 
word  was  to  be  trusted.  Alice,  too,  thought  of  her,  and  calling 
across  the  aisle  to  Julia,  asked  : 

"  Is  that  Westbrooke  girl  at  Schuyler  Hill  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  Julia  replied,  adding,  as  she  saw  the  look  of 
interest  in  Robert's  face  :  "I  think  she  is  a  kind  of  companion 
for  Mrs.  Schuyler,  and  will,  perhaps,  be  little  Arthur's  gover- 
ness. You  know  father  educated  her  for  a  teacher  ?  " 

"  I  saw  her  last  winter,"  Rosamond  Barton  said  ;  "  and 
really,  girls,  she  has  the  most  beautiful  face  and  form  I  ever 
looked  at.  Everything  about  her  is  perfect.  You'll  have  to 
paint  her  again,  Mr.  Macpherson.  Your  first  picture  does  not 
do  her  justice  now." 

Robert  bowed,  while  Julia  said,  snappishly  : 

"  Indeed,  I  am  most  anxious  to  behold  this  paragon.  I  have 
not  seen  her  either  for  two  years  or  more.  She  had  a  very  red 
nose  then." 

"  Yes,  but  it  came  from  a  bad  cold,"  Emma  quickly  inter- 


266  THE    TRAVELLERS. 

posed,  ready  now  as  ever  to  defend  the  right ;  and  then  the  con- 
versation touching  Gertie  ceased,  and  a  few  moments  after  the 
whistle  sounded,  and  the  party  had  reached  the  Hampstead 
station. 

They  walked  to  the  house,  and  Gertie  watched  them  as  they 
came  up  the  avenue, — Tom,  Rosamond  and  Emma,  Robert 
Macpherson  and  Julia,  and  lastly  Godfrey  and  Alice,  he  carry- 
ing her  shawl  and  travelling  satchel,  and  she  looking  up  into  his 
face  in  that  matter-of-course,  assured  kind  of  way  she  had  as- 
sumed since  her  engagement. 

But  Godfrey  had  other  occupation  than  attending  to  her  and 
her  pretty  coquetries.  His  eyes  had  travelled  up  the  road, 
across  the  lawn  to  the  broad  piazza,  and  the  young  girl  stand- 
ing there,  clothed  in  white,  with  the  blue  ribbons  round  her 
waist  and  the  bright  hair  on  her  neck.  And  that  he  knew  was 
Gertie  ;  not  much  taller  than  when  he  saw  her  last,  but  grown 
and  rounded  into  beautiful  womanhood,  which  showed  itself 
even  at  that  distance,  though  not  in  all  its  fulness.  That  came 
to  him  when  at  last  he  stood  with  her  hand  in  his  looking  into 
her  upturned  face  and  drinking  in  with  every  glance  fresh 
draughts  of  her  wondrous  beauty,  which  so  bewildered  and  in- 
toxicated him  that  until  Alice  spoke  to  him  twice  and  asked  for 
her  satchel  he  did  not  hear  her.  Then  releasing  Gertie's  hand, 
he  turned  to  Alice  and  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not  know  you  were  speaking  to 
me." 

Then  he  kissed  Edith,  and  tossed  little  Arthur  in  his  arms, 
and  shook  his  father's  hand,  and  greeted  the  servants  with  his 
old  freedom  and  kindness  of  manner,  while  Gertie  stood  just 
where  he  left  her,  thinking  how  differently  it  had  all  happened 
from  what  she  had  expected. 

Mr.  Macpherson  had  been  glad  to  see  her,  and  had  shown  it, 
and  so  had  Emma  and  Rosamond,  while  Alice  had  offered  her 
two  fingers,  and  said,  in  a  formal  way,  "  Happy  to  meet  you," 
and  Julia  had  offered  one  finger  with  a  nod  and  a  "  how  d'ye 
do,  Gertie,"  but  Godfrey  had  not  said  one  word !  He  had 
merely  taken  her  hand  and  held  it,  and  looked  at  her,  not  quite 


THE    TRAVELLERS.  26 J 

as  friend  looks  at  friend  after  an  absence  of  years,  but  in  a  way 
which  puzzled  and  perplexed  her,  and  made  her  heart  throb 
quickly,  and  the  color  deepen  on  her  cheeks.  How  handsome 
he  was,  and  how  changed  in  some  respects  from  the  tall,  slen- 
der youth,  who  seemed  all  legs  and  arms,  but  who  now  in  the 
fulness  of  manhood  was  not  one  inch  too  tall.  All  the  lank- 
ness  of  his  boyhood  was  gone,  but  the  grace  and  suppleness  re- 
mained, and  his  erect  form  and  square  shoulders  would  have 
become  the  finest  officer  that  ever  drilled  his  pupils  at  West 
Point.  On  the  face,  once  so  smooth  and  fair,  there  was  a  rich 
brown  beard  now,  and  the  hair  had  taken  a  darker  tinge,  and 
curling  a  little  at  the  ends  lay  in  thick  masses  around  his  broad 
white  brow.  Even  his  eyes  were  softened,  though  they  still 
brimmed  with  fun  and  mischief,  and  tenderness,  too,  as  Gertie 
knew  when  they  were  gazing  into  hers. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Godfrey  ?" 

It  was  Tom  Barton  who  asked  the  question,  and  starting  from 
her  dreamy  attitude,  Gertie  replied  : 

"  I  think  him  the  most  splendid-looking  man  I  ever  saw." 

"  That's  so,"  Tom  answered,  warmly,  while  Gertie,  who  had 
no  wish  to  talk  with  him  further  then,  passed  into  the  house 
and  went  to  her  own  room. 

It  was  six  o'clock,  and  with  a  hasty  glance  at  herself  in  the 
mirror,  and  a  thought  that  her  personal  appearance  mattered 
nothing  to  any  one,  she  went  down  to  the  parlor,  where  the 
family  usually  assembled  before  going  in  to  dinner.  They 
were  all  there  now,  talking  and  laughing  in  little  groups,  except 
Godfrey,  who  stood  apart  from  the  others,  leaning  his  elbow 
on  the  mantel  and  watching  the  door  as  if  expecting  some  one 
to  enter.  He  had  mentally  commented  on  the  ladies  as  they 
came  in,  pronouncing  Edith  beautiful,  Julia  handsome,  Emma 
graceful  and  stylish,  Rosamond  pretty  and  sweet,  and  Alice 
stunning  and  fashionable  ;  and  now  he  was  waiting  for  the  girl 
in  the  simple  white  muslin,  who  came  at  last,  without  the  aid 
of  Parisian  toilet  or  ornament  of  any  kind,  and  eclipsed  the 
whole,  just  as  the  morning  sun  obscures  the  daylight  and  makes 
itself  the  centre  of  light  and  glory.  There  was  no  shadow  of 


268  THE    TRAVELLERS. 

embarrassment  perceptible  as  she  entered  the  parlor,  but  her 
manner  was  that  of  a  daughter  of  the  house  rather  than 
an  inferior,  as  she  crossed  the  long  room  and  joined  the  group 
by  the  bay  window.  There  was  a  supercilious  stare  from 
Julia,  a  little  nod  from  Alice,  and  a  welcoming  smile  from 
Edith,  Emma,  and  Rosamond ;  and  then  the  conversation 
flowed  on  again  until  the  dinner-bell  rang,  and  the  party  filed 
off  in  pairs  to  the  dining-room.  As  a  matter  of  course,  God- 
frey took  Alice,  while  Julia  fell  naturally  to  Robert,  and  Tom 
was  left  with  three  girls  on  his  hands. 

"  I  can't  beau  you  all,  so  I  guess  I'll  take  my  pick,"  he  said, 
as  he  offered  his  arm  to  Gertie,  while  his  sister  and  Emma  fol- 
lowed behind. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Tom  was  seated  between  Gertie 
and  Julia  Schuyler,  who,  not  satisfied  with  the  attentions  of 
Mr.  Macpherson,  tried  her  best  to  attract  Torn  also,  and  keep 
him  from  talking  to  Gertie. 

"  Not  any  wine  ?  "  she  said,  as  he  drew  his  glass  away  when 
the  decanter  was  passed.  "  That  is  something  new.  You'll 
surely  take  a  little  with  me.  It  is  some  of  father's  very  best." 

Tom  knew  that  as  well  or  better  than  she  did,  and  the  smell 
and  the  demon  in  the  cup  moving  itself  upright  was  tempting 
him  sorely,  while  Julia's  seductive  smile  and  words  of  entreaty 
were  more  than  he  could  endure,  and  forgetting  what  even  a 
taste  involved  he- raised  the  glass,  while  Rosamond,  sitting  op- 
posite, looked  pale  and  anxious,  and  distressed.  But  ere  a 
drop  had  touched  his  lips,  a  hand  pressed  his  arm,  and  a  soft 
voice  said,  "  Don't." 

Instantly  the  glass  went  down  upon  the  table  with  so  much 
force  that  the  wine  was  spilled  upon  the  cloth,  while  Julia  mut- 
tered, under  her  breath,  "  Upon  my  word  !"  as  she  cast  a  light- 
ning glance  upon  Gertie,  whose  face  flushed,  but  whose  blue  eyes 
smiled  approvingly  upon  poor  Tom,  and  intoxicated  him  almost 
as  much  as  the  colonel's  best  wine  could  have  done,  only  in  a 
different  way. 

"  You  are  a  darling,"  Rosamond  whispered  to  her,  when  at 
a  late  hour  she  and  her  brother  were  saying  good-by  to  the 


THE    TRAVELLERS.  269 

young  people  at  the  Hill.  "  Nobody  but  you  could  have  kept 
Tom  from  drinking.  I  shall  tell  mother  about  it." 

Tom,  too,  subdued,  and  ashamed  that  he  had  been  so  near 
falling  again,  and  very  grateful  to  his  deliverer,  whispered  his 
words  of  thankfulness. 

"  You  are  my  good  angel,  Gertie ;  but  for  you  I  should  have 
been  as  drunk  as  a  fool  by  this  time.  Heaven  bless  you  as  you 
deserve  ! " 

Then  the  brother  and  sister  went  away,  and  the  young  ladies, 
tired  and  sleepy,  started  for  their  rooms,  Alice  looking  around 
for  Godfrey,  with  whom  she  would  gladly  have  tarried  a  little 
longer  to  hear  the  soft  nothings  which  she  liked  and  had  a  right 
to  expect  from  him.  But  Godfrey  had  disappeared,  and  only 
Gertie  stood  at  the  end  of  the  broad  piazza,  leaning  against  a 
pillar,  with  the  moonlight  falling  full  upon  her  as  she  looked  off 
upon  the  river  and  the  mountains  beyond,  wondering  at  the 
strange  unrest  which  filled  her  soul,  and  at  the  coldness  of  God- 
frey toward  her.  As  yet  he  had  not  addressed  her  a  word 
since  he  came  home,  neither  had  she  spoken  to  him.  To  be 
sure  there  had  been  a  reason  for  this,  for  since  the  moment  of 
his  arrival,  when  he  held  her  hand  in  his  and  looked  so  curi- 
ously at  her,  he  had  been  occupied  with  some  one  else.  His 
seat  at  dinner  had  been  far  away  from  ^ers.  After  dinner  she 
had  sat  an  hour  or  so  with  little  Arthur,  ^hom  she  always  put 
to  sleep,  and  on  her  return  to  the  drawing-room  she  had  at 
once  been  claimed  by  Tom  Barton,  who  kept  constantly  at  her 
side  until  he  bade  her  good-night.  So  Godfrey  was  not  so 
much  to  blame,  and  she  acquitted  him  of  intentional  neglect, 
but  felt  a  little  hurt  and  grieved,  and  was  saying  to  herself, 
"  He  does  not  care  for  me  now,"  when  a  voice  said,  close  to 
her  ear,  "  Gertie  !  " 

It  was  Godfrey's,  and  he  was  there  beside  her,  looking  into 
her  face,  on  which  the  moonlight  shone  so  brightly.  He 
had  eluded  Alice,  and  when  he  heard  her  voice  in  her  own 
room  he  stole  out  upon  the  piazza,  intending  to  walk  up  and 
down  a  while  before  retiring  to  rest.  First,  however,  he 
made  the  circuit  of  the  building  and  glanced  up  at  the  room  in 


270  THE    TRAVELLERS. 

the  south  wing,  which  he  had  heard  from  Edith  was  Gertie's. 
But  the  windows  were  dark ;  Gertie  was  not  there  ;  or,  being 
there,  must  have  retired,  and  he  retraced  his  steps  to  the  piazza 
in  front,  where  he  saw  the  little,  white-robed  figure  leaning 
over  the  railing.  That  was  Gertie,  and  he  went  swiftly  to  her 
side,  and  spoke  the  one  word,  "  Gertie,"  which  brought  the 
color  to  her  cheeks,  while  the  sparkle  of  the  blue  eyes,  lifted  so 
quickly,  kindled  a  strange  fire  in  his  veins,  and  made  him 
shiver  as  if  he  were  cold. 

"  What,  Godfrey  ?  "  Gertie  answered  softly,  her  eyes  con- 
fronting him  steadily  a  moment,  and  then  dropping  beneath  his 
ardent  gaze. 

"  Gertie,  do  you  know  you  have  not  spoken  to  me  since  I 
came  home  ?  And  I  thought  you  would  be  so  glad  to  see 
me." 

There  was  reproach  in  his  tone,  and  it  went  to  Gertie's  heart, 
and  her  voice  trembled  as  she  replied  : 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Godfrey,  gladder  than  you  can  guess. 
I  thought  so  much  of  your  corning,  and  then  when  you  came 
home  you  never  spoke  to  me." 

There  certainly  was  a  tear  on  the  long  eyelashes,  and  tears 
on  Gertie's  eyelashes  were  very  different  things  from  tears 
on  Alice's  nose,  and  the  impulsive  Godfrey  snatched  up  the 
hand  which  rested  on  the  railing  and  held  it  fast  in  his  own,  as 
he  said  : 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  did  not  speak  to  you  ?  I  could  not,  I 
was  so  completely  confounded  and  bewildered  to  find  you  what 
you  are.  Tom  Barton, — by  the  way,  Gertie,  you  certainly  have 
no  intention  of  marrying  Tom  Barton,  if  he  reforms  a  hundred 
times  ?  " 

"  No,  Godfrey,  I  have  not." 

"  i  thought  so.  Well,  Tom  raved  about  you  by  the  hour,  and 
said  you  were  beautiful ;  but  that  does  not  express  it.  J  wonder 
now  if  you  know  just  how  you  look." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  and  he  went  on  : 

"  It  is  more  than  four  years  since  I  saw  you,  and  I  had  you 
in  my  mind  as  the  little  girl  I  used  to  tease  at  the  cottage,  and 


THE    TRAVELLERS.  271 

who  used  to  criticise  me  so  severely.  Petite  you  are  still,  it  is 
true,  but  so  changed  in  everything  else,  so  completely  a  woman, 
that  for  a  few  moments  I  think  i  must  have  been  sorry,  feeling 
as  J  did  that  I  had  lost  my  little  mentor  in  more  ways  than  one." 

He  was  looking  fixedly  at  her,  with  strange,  wild  words 
trembling  on  his  lips,  but  there  was  a  bar  between  him  and  the 
bright  beauty  which  so  dazzled  and  fascinated  him, — a  thought 
of  Alice,  the  light  from  whose  window  was  shining  down  upon 
the  shrubbery,  and  whose  voice,  as  she  leaned  from  the  case- 
ment, was  heard  saving  to  some  one  :  "  Yes,  she  really  is  very 
pretty,  but  has  no  style  whatever." 

"  Style  be "  Godfrey  did  not  say  what,  for  a  look  in  the 

blue  eyes  checked  him  ;  but  he  deepened  his  grasp  on  the  hand 
he  held,  and  his  breath  came  hard  as  he  said  :  "  Gertie,  you 
have  not  yet  congratulated  me  upon  my  prospects.  Do  you 
not  think  I  have  chosen  well  ?  " 

To  Gertie  it  did  not  seem  as  if  he  had  chosen  well.  He  had 
nothing  in  common  with  Alice  Creighton,  but  she  did  not  tell 
him  so,  and  she  was  wondering  how  she  should  answer  him, 
when  again  the  voice  above  them  rang  out,  clear  and  loud  : 

"  I  have  no  fear  of  that.  Her  pretty  face  may  attract  God- 
frey, and  lead  him  to  say  soft  nothings  to  her  on  the  sly.  All 
men  do  that,  but  I  fancy  I  have  influence  enough  to  keep  him 
from  going  far  astray." 

"  Oh,  Godfrey,  I  must  not  stay  here  any  longer.  It  is  too 
much  like  listening.  Let  me  go,  please  !  "  Gertie  said,  trying 
to  release  her  hand. 

But  Godfrey  held  her  fast,  saying  to  her  : 

"  It  is  not  listening.  If  Alice  does  not  wish  us  to  hear,  let 
her  talk  in  her  room,  and  not  out  of  the  window.  I  cannot 
let  you  go  yet.  I  want  you  all  to  myself  for  a  little  while.  I 
may  not  get  another  chance." 

He  smiled  bitterly,  and  then  laying  his  disengaged  hand  on 
Gertie's  shoulder  he  suddenly  asked: 

"  Why  did  you  not  answer  my  letters,  Gertie  ?  " 

"  Your  letters,  Godfrey  !  What  letters  ?  I  never  received 
a  line  from  you,"  Gertie  said,  while  Godfrey  rejoined-: 


272  THE    TRAVELLERS. 

"  Never  received  a  line  from  me  !  That  is  very  strange  ! — 
and  I  wrote  to  you  three  different  times.  Think,  Gertie, — try 
to  recall  it.  Fours  years  ago,  when  you  first  went  to  school, 
and  I  came  home  and  found  you' gone,  I  wrote  from  here  how 
disappointed  I  was  not  to  see  you,  and  asked  you  to  corre- 
spond with  me,  and  let  me  be  your  brother.  You  were  my 
little  sister,  I  said  ;  I  adopted  you  as  such,  and  I  said  a  heap 
more  soft  nothings,  as  Alice  might  call  them,  though  I  was  very 
much  in  earnest  at  the  time,  and  to  myself  called  you  '  La  Sceitr ' 
always.  And  you  never  received  that  letter  ?  " 

"Never,  Godfrey.  I  should  remember  that,  and  you  say  you 
wrote  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  from  Andover ;  and  sent  my  photograph,  and  asked 
for  yours  in  return,  and  bet  fifty  dollars  with  some  students  that 
I'd  show  them  the  handsomest  picture  they  ever  saw,  and  I 
waited  so  anxiously  for  it ;  but  it  never  came,  and  at  last  I 
wrote  again,  and  told  you  to  go  to  thunder  !  I  did,  upon  my 
word,  I  felt  so  piqued  and  slighted,  and  I  said  I  meant  to  go  to 
the  bad,  and  smoke,  and  drink,  and  swear,  and  do  everything  I 
could  think  of." 

"Oh,  Godfrey,  Godfrey!  You  didn't,  though,  I  hope!" 
Gertie  cried,  while  her  fingers  tightened  around  the  hand  hold- 
ing them  so  fast. 

"  Yes,  I  did, — for  a  little  while.  I  drank  a  lot  of  wine,  which 
went  to  my  head,  and  smoked  three  cigars,  which  went  to  my 
stomach,  and  made  me  feel  worse  than  sea-sickness,  if  that  were 
possible.  I  was  crazy  as  a  loon,  and  smashed  everything  in  my 
room,  and  sang  uproarious  songs  ;  and,  when  one  of  the  tutors 
came  to  see  what  was  up,  I  called  him  a  fool,  and  threw  the 
wash-bowl  at  his  head.  Of  course  I  was  reprimanded,  and  re- 
ported to  father,  who  came  to  see  about  it,  and  paid  for  the 
furniture,  and  talked  so  good  that  I  promised  to  do  better,  and 
I  did.  And  you  say  you  never  received  those  letters  ?  " 

"  Never,  Godfrey.  I  should  have  answered  them,"  Gertie 
said,  while  Godfrey  continued  :  "  And  if  you  had,  Gertie, — I 
might, — oh,  who  knows  what  might  have  been  ! " 

He  was  holding  both  her  hands  and  looking  down  upon  her 


THE    TRAVELLERS.  273 

as  no  man  ought  to  look  upon  a  girl  when  he  is  engaged  to 
another.  Some  such  thought  as  this  must  have  crossed  Gertie's 
mind,  for  she  released  herself  from  him  suddenly,  and  said  : 

"  It  is  very  late,  Godfrey.     I  must  go  in  now." 

"No,  Gertie,  please,"  and  he  still  tried  to  detain  her. 
"  Wait  a  little  longer.  I  am  yours  to-night ;  to-morrow  I  am 
some  one's  else,  and  must  come  under  orders,  you  know." 

He  spoke  ironically,  and  then  as  he  saw  that  Gertie  was 
really  leaving  him,  he  continued  : 

"  By  the  way,  Gertie,  one  thing  more,  and  you  may  go.  Do 
you  remember  the  forlorn  sick  little  girl  who  sat  on  the 
deck  years  ago,  and  the  bold,  impudent  fellow  who  made  her 
so  angry,  and  the  promise  she  gave  him  on  certain  condi- 
tions ?" 

Gertie's  cheeks  were  scarlet,  as  she  replied  :  "Yes,  Godfrey, 
I  remember  it." 

"  Well,  then,  can  you  redeem  the  promise  now?" 

There  was  the  old  saucy  look  in  his  eyes,  mingled  with 
another  look,  which  Gertie  could  not  mistake,  and  stepping 
backward  as  he  bent  toward  her,  she  answered  him  :  "  No, 
you  are  not  a  gentleman,  or  you  would  not  remind  me  of  that 
now  !  " 

She  was  gone,  and  he  heard  her  step  as  she  went  up  the  stairs 
and  through  the  hall  of  the  south  wing  to  her  own  room,  and 
he  was  alone  in  the  quiet  night,  wondering  what  spell  was  upon 
him,  and  if  it  really  were  himself  standing  there,  so  bewildered 
and  perplexed. 

"  I'll  walk  down  the  avenue  and  back  as  fast  as  I  can,  and 
see  if  that  brings  me  to  myself,"  he  said,  and  he  tried  it,  and 
went  to  the  little  cottage,  where  Gertie  used  to  live,  and  stood 
leaning  over  the  fence,  and  recalling  the  time  when  he  first  saw 
her  there  working  in  the  garden  with  the  flush  on  her  cheeks, 
and  her  bright  hair  floating  back  from  her  face. 

And  then  he  remembered  her  as  he  had  just  seen  her,  grown 
to  glorious  womanhood,  with  eyes  whose  glances  intoxicated 
him  as  he  had  never  been  intoxicated  since  the  memorable  col- 
lege spree.  Then  he  walked  back  again  to  the  house  on  the 


274  THE   TRAVELLERS. 

Hill,  every  window  of  which  was  darkened,  and  whose  inmates 
were  asleep.  But  for  himself,  he  felt  that  he  should  never  sleep 
again  with  those  two  conflicting  sensations  battling  so  fiercely 
in  his  heart,  one  cutting  like  a  sharp,  keen  knife,  when  he  re- 
membered Alice  and  the  words  spoken  to  her  less  than  a  week 
ago,  and  the  other  thrilling  him  with  ecstasy  and  a  sense  of  de- 
licious joy  when  he  thought  of  the  sweet,  serene  face  on  which 
the  moonlight,  had  fallen,  softening  and  subduing,  and  making 
it  like  the  face  of  an  angel. 

Godfrey  was  in  love !    He  knew  it  at  last,  and  exclaimed  : 

"lam  in  love  with  Gertie  Westbrooke,  and  believe  I  have 
been  ever  since  I  first  saw  her  years  ago  in  London.  But  the 
knowledge  of  it  has  come  too  late.  No  Schuyler  ever  yet  broke 
his  word,  and  I  shall  not  break  mine.  But  if  she  had  received 
my  letters  it  might  have  been  so  different." 

And  why  had  she  not  received  them  ?  How  could  three 
letters  go  astray?  Certainly  he  directed  them  aright.  He 
surely  did  the  one  sent  to  Schuyler  Hill.  He  had  written  to 
his  father  at  the  same  time  and  received  an  answer  to  that. 
Why,  then,  did  Gertie  not  get  hers?  Had  there  been  foul  play, 
and  if  so,  where  and  by  whom  ?  Suddenly  there  flashed  into 
his  mind  a  suspicion  which  made  him  start,  while  a  strange 
gleam  shone  in  his  eyes,  as  he  said  : 

"  I'll  know  the  truth  to-morrow." 

It  was  to-morrow  now,  for  the  early  summer  morning  was 
shining  on  the  mountain  tops,  and  tired  and  excited,  Godfrey 
went  at  last  to  his  room  to  get  a  little  rest  before  the  household 
was  astir. 


COLONEL  SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GODFREY.    275 

:HAPTER  xxxvm. 

COLONEL    SCHUYLER    INTERVIEWS    GODFREY. 

jjODFREY,  I  wish  to  see  you  for  a  few  moments,"  the 
colonel  said  to  his  son  when  towards  noon  he  found 
him  in  the  library  alone. 

"  Certainly,  I  wish  to  see  you,  too,"  Godfrey  replied,  as  he 
arose  and  followed  his  father  to  the  little  office  in  the  rear  of  the 
house,  where  the  colonel  transacted  his  business. 

Colonel  Schuyler  did  not  know  exactly  what  he  wished  to 
say  to  his  son,  and  after  they  were  seated  there  ensued  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  which  Godfrey  broke  by  saying  : 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?     What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  sure.  I — I — wish  to  speak  of  this  affair, — your 
engagement,  you  know,  and  arrange  about  the  marriage,  and 
when  it  will  take  place.  The  sooner  the  better,  I  think,  as  I 
do  not  believe  in  long  engagements." 

"  But,  father,  I  have  not  my  profession  yet,"  Godfrey  said, 
feeling  again  the  cutting  pain  as  he  thought  of  being  really  tied 
to  Alice,  with  no  longer  a  right  to  think  of  that  sweet  face 
which  had  looked  at  him  through  the  moonlight  and  made  his 
heart  throb  so  fast. 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  but  you  can  finish  your  studies  after  marriage," 
the  colonel  replied  ;  and  seeing  Godfrey  about  to  speak  again, 
he  continued  :  "  I  need  not  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  of  this  en- 
gagement, which  I  have  hoped  for  so  long.  Alice  is  a  fine  girl, 
— a  very  fine  girl  ;  not  as  handsome,  perhaps,  as  some,"  he 
said,  as  he  guessed  what  was  in  Godfrey's  mind,  and  thought, 
himself,  of  a  rare  type  of  beauty,  which  moved  even  him  at 
times. 

"  No,  Miss  Creighton  is  not  a  beauty, — I  should  think  not," 
Godfrey  interrupted,  impatiently,  whereupon  the  colonel  brought) 
his  eyebrows  together,  and  regarding  his  son  curiously,  went 
on  : 

"  Such  girls  as  Alice,  I  have  often  noticed,  grow  into  fine- 
looking  old  ladies ;  so  they  have  the  advantage  in  one  respect." 


276     COLONEL   SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS  GODFREY. 

"  Yes  ;  but  who  cares  or  thinks  of  a  good-looking  old  wife  ! " 
Godfrey  said,  petulantly. 

But  his  father  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  petulance,  and  con- 
tinued : 

"  Your  Uncle  Calvert  writes  me  that  you  looked  at  a  house 
which  Alice  would  like.  Did  it  suit  you  as  well  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  found  no  fault  with  it  except  its  size.  It  will  cost 
one  fortune  to  furnish  it,  and  another  to  run  it  according  to 
Alice's  ideas,"  Godfrey  answered,  crisply,  seeing,  even  then,  as 
in  a  vision,  a  lovely  little  cottage  somewhere  among  the  hills  in 
the  quiet  country,  with  just  room  enough  in  it  for  himself  and 
one  more,  and  that  one,  alas !  not  Alice. 

"  Thirty  thousand  a  year  ought  to  run  most  any  house  ;  and 
that,  I  believe,  is  Miss  Creighton's  income,"  was  the  colonel's  re- 
mark, to  which  there  was  no  reply ;  and  he  continued  :  "  I  think 
we  may  as  well  secure  this  house  at  once.  I  will  write  to  your 
Uncle  Calvert  to-day ;  and,  Godfrey,  it  will  suit  me  to  have  the 
marriage  consummated  soon, — say  some  time  in  the  autumn. 
Shall  I  call  Alice,  and  see  if  she  is  willing  ?  " 

He  arose  to  touch  the  bell,  when  Godfrey  interposed,  and 
grasping  his  father's  arm,  said  quickly : 

"  Father,  listen  to  me  !  My  engagement  was  a  hasty  thing, 
brought  about  Heaven  only  knows  how,  and  now  I  will  not 
commit  a  second  blunder  by  allowing  myself  to  be  driven  into 
a  hasty  marriage." 

"  Godfrey,  my  son  ! " — and  now  the  colonel  roused  a  little, — 
"  one  would  think  your  heart  was  not  in  this  marriage,  which  I 
desire  so  much  !  " 

There  was  no  answer  from  Godfrey,  and  the  colonel  went 
on  : 

"  I  trust  you  knew  your  own  mind  when  you  offered  yourself 
to  Alice,  and  that  you  have  no  thought  of  drawing  back.  Re- 
member, that  for  many  generations  a  Schuyler  has  never  broken 
his  word  ;  they  have  all  been  men  of  honor,  and  my  son  must 
not  be  the  first  to  disgrace  us." 

Godfrey  was  white  now,  even  to  his  lips,  and  his  voice  shook 
as  he  replied  ; 


COLONEL  SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GODFREY.     277 

"  You  need  not  fear  for  me,  I  shall  keep  my  word  to  Alice. 
The  Schuylers  will  not  be  disgraced  by  me.  And  now,  father, 
one  question  to  you.  The  Schuylers,  you  say,  were  all  men  of 
honor,  and  I  put  it  to  your  honor  to  answer  me  truly.  Four 
years  ago  last  spring,  when  I  came  home  from  Andover  and 
found  Gertie  Westbrooke  gone,  I  was  terribly  disappointed. 
That  child, — she  was  one  then, — had  a  powerful  hold  on  me,  and 
by  her  purity  of  principle  and  plain  way  of  speaking  to  me  was 
doing  me  untold  good,  and  I  wanted  to  see  her  again  and  hear 
what  she  had  to  say.  But  she  was  gone,  and  so  I  wrote  to  her, 
and  gave  the  letter  to  you  to  post  just  as  I  would  have  given 
you  one  for  Bob.  It  may  seem  strange  that  I  remember  it  so 
distinctly.  But  I  do.  You  were  going  out  with  letters  in  your 
hand  and  I  gave  you  that,  but  never  heard  from  it  afterward. 
After  waiting  awhile  for  an  answer  I  wrote  again  from  school 
with  a  like  result,  and  then  when  I  knew  she  was  here  I  wrote 
again,  and  directed  to  your  care.  Do  you  know  why  neither 
of  these  letters  ever  reached  her,  for  they  did  not  ?  She  told 
me  so  last  night  when  I  asked  her  why  she  did  not  reply." 

He  was  looking  steadily  at  his  father,  whose  eyes  were  cast 
down  as  he  replied  : 

"  My  son,  I  have  to  beg  your  pardon  there.  It  was  not  an 
honorable  thing  to  do,  though  I  did  it  for  the  best.  I  never 

sent  the  letter  committed  to  my  care,  and  I  wrote  to  Miss , 

the  preceptress,  sending  her  a  specimen  of  your  writing,  and 
asking  her  if  any  letter  came  to  Gertie  Westbrooke,  directed  in 
that  hand,  to  withhold  it  from  her  and  mail  it  back  to  me.  She 
did  so,  and  when  your  third  and  last  arrived  I  kept  it  also,  and 
hs.ve  them  now  unopened  and  unread." 

"  And  truly  that  was  a  very  honorable  thing  for  one  to  do 
who  talks  to  me  of  honor  !  May  I  ask  why  you  did  it  ?  "  God- 
frey said,  his  young  face  flushing  and  his  voice  full  of  anger. 

"  I  did  it  to  prevent  possible  trouble.  I  knew  how  much 
you  were  interested  in  the  girl,  and  I  did  not -wish  to  have  her 
harmed." 

"  Father  !  "  and  Godfrey's  voice  rang  with  surprise  a'nd  scorn. 
"  You  knew  me,  I  am  your  son,  and  you  knew  that  sooner  than 


278    COLONEL  SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GODFREY. 

dishonor  any  woman  I  would  part  with  my  life  ;  much  less  then 
•would  I  harm  a  hair  of  the  head  of  one  who  has  been  to  me  the 
sweetest  thing  I  ever  knew  since  I  first  saw  her  years  ago  in 
England.  You  had  nothing  to  fear  for  her.  There  was  some 
other  reason.  Will  you  tell  me  what  it  was,  honestly  ? — the 
Schuylers  are  men  of  honor,  you  know  1  " 

To  this  appeal  the  colonel  answered  a  little  hotly : 

"  Yes,  Godfrey,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  I  feared  an  entangle- 
ment which  might  interfere  with  the  wish  of  my  life.  I  knew 
how  beautiful,  and  sweet,  and  pure  Gertie  was  just  as  well  as 
you.  But  she  is  not  a  fitting  wife  for  you.  She  has  neither 
money,  name,  nor  friends." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  Mary  Rogers  always  said  she  was 
a  lady  born,"  Godfrey  exclaimed  impetuously,  and  his  father 
replied  : 

''  When  Mary  died  and  the  child  came  here  to  live,  I  took 
pains  to  inquire  into  her  antecedents,  and  wrote  to  the  firm 
where  her  annuity  is  invested.  But  they  could  tell  me  nothing  ; 
the  business  had  been  done  by  Mrs.  Rogers  as  guardian  of  the 
child,  and  I  came  to  regard  the  big  house  and  the  high-born 
mother  as  a  myth.  No,  Gertie  has  no  friends,  no  money,  no 
name,  and  I  would  not  see  you  throw  yourself  away  as  you 
might  have  done  had  the  correspondence  been  permitted  to  go 
on.  Believe  me,  Godfrey,  I  acted  for  the  best.  It  was  your 
mother's  dying  wish  that  you  should  marry  Alice,  and  for  her 
sake,  if  for  no  other,  you  will  not  break  your  word." 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  breaking  my  word.  I  am  engaged 
to  Alice,  and  shall  marry  her  in  time,  but  if  it  were  to  do  again, 
I  should  think  twice  before  1  made  a  promise  I  find  so  hard  to 
keep ;  for,  father,  we  will  have  no  more  concealments.  I 
love  Gertie  Westbrooke  so  much  that  I  would  rather  live  with 
her  on  a  crust  a  day  than  share  with  another  all  the  splendors 
of  the  world.  It  is  no  sudden  passion  either.  She  has  been  in 
my  heart  constantly,  though  absence  and  silence  had  dimmed 
the  picture  a  little,  and  I  thought  of  her  always  as  a  child.  But 
when  I  saw  her  yesterday  in  the  full  bloom  of  womanhood,  and 
compared  her  with  Alice  and  my  sisters  and  all  the  girls  I  ever 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GODFREY.    279 

saw,  I  knew  that  for  me  there  was  no  other  woman  living,  no 
other  love  which  could  ever  touch  my  heart  and  make  it  throb 
just  as  it  does  now  at  the  mere  mention  of  her.  I  love  her 
better  than  my  life,  and  love  her  all  $ie  more  for  knowing  she 
is  not  for  me.  I  have  promised  to  marry  Alice  and  shall  keep 
my  word,  unless  she  releases  me  of  her  own  free  will.  But  I 
will  not  be  hurried  into  matrimony.  I  will  have  my  profession 
first  and  keep  my  freedom  a  little  longer.  You  need  not  bar- 
gain for  that  house  ;  I  shall  not  need  it.  I  presume  our  confer- 
ence is  ended,  and  if  you  will  excuse  me  I'll  go  where  I  can 
breathe  ;  the  atmosphere  of  this  room  is  stifling." 

He  arose  precipitately,  and,  with  a  bow  to  his  father,  rushed 
into  the  open  air,  and  going  to  the  stables  bade  John  saddle 
Bedouin,  his  favorite  mare  and  pet. 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Godfrey,  you  will  not  ride  in  this  dreadful  heat. 
It  will  kill  the  mare.  She  has  not  been  much  used  to  exercise 
lately,"  John  said,  for  he  knew  his  young  master's  partiality  for 
fast  and  long  riding,  and  dreaded  the  effect  on  Bedouin,  a  beau- 
tiful young  chestnut  mare  with  graceful,  flowing  mane. 

But  Godfrey  was  not  in  a  mood  to  consider  either  horse-flesh 
or  heat.  He  must  do  something  to  work  off  that  load  weighing 
so  heavily  upon  his  heart,  and  mounting  Bedouin  and  giving  her 
full  rein,  he  went  tearing  down  the  avenue  at  headlong  speed 
and  off  into  the  country,  mile  after  mile,  while  the  people  in 
the  farm-houses  looked  curiously  after  him,  wondering  if  it 
were  a  case  of  life  or  death,  or  if  he  were  some  felon  escaping 
from  justice.  On  and  on  he  went,  knowing  nothing  of  the  flecks 
of  white  foam  gathering  all  over  Bedouin's  body,  and  knowing 
nothing  how  fast  or  how  far  he  was  riding,  or  that  he  had  turned 
and  was  going  toward  home,  until,  on  a  sudden,  the  poor  beast  be- 
gan to  reel,  and  with  a  few  plunges  came  heavily  to  the  ground 
just  before  the  door  of  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen.  In  a  trice  the 
good  woman  was  at  his  side,  followed  by  the  twins  whose  inter- 
est in  the  struggling  steed  was  greater  than  in  the  young  man 
picking  himself  up  and  rubbing  his  bruised  knee. 

"  Poor  Bedouin.  I'm  afraid  it's  all  over  with  you,"  Godfrey 
said  as  he  knelt  by  the  dying  brute,  whom  he  tenderly  caressed, 


280    COLONEL  SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS    GODFREY. 

and  who  seemed  to  understand  him.  "  Poor  Bedouin,  poor  pet, 
I  did  not  mean  to  kill  you.  I  am  so  sorry.  Poor  little  lady," 
he  kept  repeating,  as  he  held  the  horse's  head  on  his  arm  and 
gazed  into  the  dying  eyes,  where  there  was  almost  a  human  look 
of  love  and  pardon  as  the  noble  beast  expired. 

"  He's  a  goner,  sure,"  came  from  one  of  the  twins,  as  the 
horse  ceased  to  breathe  and  Godfrey  bent  to  undo  the  fastenings 
of  the  saddle. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Is  any  one  hurt  ?  Oh,  Godfrey,  is  that  you  ? 
What  is  the  matter  ?  "  was  spoken  in  a  voice  which  made  God- 
frey start,  and  turning  round  he  saw  Gertie  in  the  door. 

She  had  been  sitting  with  old  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen,  who  was 
sick,  and  hearing  the  noise  outside  had  come  to  see  what  was 
the  matter. 

"  Are  you  hurt  ?  What  is  it  ?  Oh,  Godfrey,  Bedouin  is 
dead  !  WThat  have  you  been  doing  ?  "  she  asked,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes  and  reproach  in  her  voice. 

"  Been  exorcising  the  demon  within  me,  and  believe  I've  suc- 
ceeded in  casting  it  out,  but  at  the  cost  of  Beddy's  life.  Poor 
Beddy !  I  hope  she's  gone  where  she'll  have  nothing  to  do  but 
eat  clover  and  kick  up  her  heels  the  blessed  day,"  Godfrey  an- 
swered playfully,  trying  to  make  light  of  it,  though  in  truth  his 
heart  was  very  heavy  as  he  removed  the  saddle  and  bridle,  and 
calling  to  some  men  working  on  the  road  at  a  little  distance, 
made  arrangements  with  them  for  burying  his  horse. 

Then  turning  to  Gertie  he  said : 

"  I  am  at  your  service  now,  if  you  are  ready  to  go  home.  It 
must  be  near  dinner-time." 

And  so  the  two  walked  slowly  down  the  street  and  up  the 
long  avenue  towards  the  group  of  girls,  who,  in  their  airy  even- 
ing dresses,  stood  watching  them  as  they  came. 
„     "  Where  have  you  been  this  scorching  afternoon  ?  "    Alice 
asked,  with  a  cloud  upon  her  face. 

"  I  have  been  to  read  to  old  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen.  I  go 
there  almost  every  day,"  Gertie  replied,  as  she  went  quietly  into 
the  house  and  up  to  her  room  to  dress  for  dinner. 

"  And  you  have  been  reading  to  old  Mrs.  Van,  too  ?  "   Alice 


COLONEL  SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GODFREY.    281 

asked  of  Godfrey,  who  replied  by  telling  her  what  had  happened 
to  Bedouin. 

"  The  weather  was  too  hot  and  I  rode  too  fast,"  he  said. 
"  John  warned  me  of  the  danger,  but  I  did  not  listen,  and  now 
Bedouin  is  dead  and  I  am  two  hundred  dollars  out  pf  pocket, 
with  a  reputation  for  fastness  and  cruelty,  no  doubt,  which  would 
bring  Bergli  about  my  ears,  if  he  were  only  here  in  Hampstead." 

"  But  are  you  hurt,  Godfrey  ?  Oh,  I'm  afraid  you  are.  Look, 
your  pants  are  all  dirt,"  Alice  cried,  clinging  to  him  with  a 
pretty  affectation  of  concern,  which,  if  the  "  demon  had  not 
been  exorcised,"  would  have  disgusted  and  made  -him  angry, 
but  which  in  his  present  mood  he  was  inclined  to  humor  and 
laugh  at. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  make  the  best  of  his  situation 
and  bear  the  burden  bravely.  Alice  was  his  betrothed,  and  had 
a  right  to  cling  to  him  and  be  anxious  if  she  chose,  and  he  let 
her  do  it,  and  even  wound  his  arm  around  her  as  he  assured 
her  of  his  perfect  safety. 

"  Now,  then,  you  must  let  me  go  and  dress  for  dinner,"  he 
said,  as  the  first  bell  rang  out  its  summons,  and  breaking  away 
from  her  he  ran  up  to  his  room,  where  he  bathed  his  face  and 
hands  and  said  to  himself,  as  he  looked  in  the  glass  and  saw 
how  pale  he  was  : 

"  It's  a  hard  thing,  old  fellow,  but  you  will  have  to  pull 
through.  No  Schuyler  ever  yet  broke  his  word." 

He  was  very  attentive  to  Alice  that  night,  while  in  her  de- 
light at  his  attentions  she  forgave  Gertie  for  walking  with  him 
from  Mrs.  Vandeusenhisen's,  though  the  germ  of  jealousy  was 
planted  in  her  mind,  and  she  resolved  to  keep  a  close  watch  of 
the  girl,  who,  with  blanched  cheeks  and  throbbing  pulse,  was, 
at  that  very  hour,  listening  to  what  very  nearly  concerned  the 
little  heiress  of  thirty  thousand  a  year. 


282      COLONEL   SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

COL.    SCHUYLER   INTERVIEWS    GERTIE. 

\of.  SCHUYLER  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  his  in- 
terview with  Godfrey,  or  his  promise  to  keep  his  word 
and  marry  Alice  Creighton.  No  doubt  he  meant  to 
do  it,  but  Godfrey  was  impulsive  and  hot-headed,  and  loved  an- 
other with  a  depth  and  fervency  which  astonished  the  cold- 
blooded man.  All  day  he  had  been  haunted  with  the  flushed, 
excited  face,  and  the  thrilling  voice  which  had  said  so  passion- 
ately, "  I  love  Gertie  VVestbrooke  so  much  that  I  would  rather 
live  with  her  on  a  crust  a  day  than  share  with  another  the  splen- 
dors of  the  world." 

Perhaps  during  the  long  summer  days,  when  they  would  be 
thrown  together,  he  would  forget  his  word  of  honor,  and  tell  her 
of  his  love,  and  what  then  ?  She  would  listen,  of  course,  unless 
some  powerful  obstacle  were  interposed  to  keep  her  from  it, 
and  that  obstacle  the  colonel  would  interpose  in  the  shape  of 
Gertie's  own  promise  and  sense  of  honor.  He  could  trust  her 
better  than  his  son,  and  he  meant  to  put  her  to  the  test,  even 
if  by  doing  it  he  wrung  her  heart  cruelly,  and  awoke  within  her 
a  sleeping  passion,  of  whose  existence  she  possibly  did  not 
know.  And  yet  the  colonel  had  no  antipathy  to  Gertie  ;  on 
the  contrary,  he  liked  her  very  much,  and  thought  hers  the  most 
beautiful  face  he  had  ever  seen,  if  he  excepted  Edith's,  which  it 
in  some  respects  resembled,  and  had  Gertie's  forty- pounds  a 
year  been  forty  thousand,  or  even  half  that  amount,  he  would 
have  given  the  preference  to  her,  notwithstanding  she  had  no 
family,  or  friends,  or  name.  But  the  colonel  held  money  high, 
and  prized  the  luxuries  which  money  brings,  and  did  not  wish 
to  live  without  them.  And  money  was  not  quite  as  plentiful 
with  Col.  Schuyler  as  it  once  had  been.  He  had  met  with  some 
heavy  losses  recently,  and  now  that  little  Arthur  had  come,  and 
other  children  might  yet  call  him  father.  Godfrey's  fortune  would 
be  much  less  than  he  had  hoped  to  make  it,  and  so  Godfrej 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS    GERTIE.      283 

must  marry  rich,  and  his  love  be  put  aside,  and  Gertie  must 
help  to  do  it,  and  be  the  means,  if  need  be,  of  breaking  her 
own  and  Godfrey's  heart. 

"  Gertie,"  he  said  to  her,  very  pleasantly  and  affably,  when 
just  before  dark  he  found  her  watering  a  bed  of  geraniums  near 
the  south  wing  windows  ;  "  Gertie,  can  I  see  you  Slone  a  few 
moments  ?  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"  Certainly,"  she  answered,  and  putting  down  her  watering- 
pot,  and  taking  off  her  garden  gloves  and  hat,  she  followed  him 
to  the  same  room  where,  earlier  in  the  day,  Godhey  had  de- 
clared his  love  for  her,  and  where  now  she  was  to  promise  to 
reject  that  love  should  it  ever  be  offered  to  her,  for  that  was  the 
colonel's  intention.  He  knew  Gertie  well  enough  to  know  that 
her  word  once  passed  she  would  keep  it,  though  her  heart  broke 
in  the  keeping.  But  how  should  he  commence  ?  What  should 
he  say  to  the  young  girl  whose  blue  eyes  were  confronting  him 
so  steadily  ? 

"  Gertie,"  he  began  at  last,  "  I  brought  you  here  to  ask  a 
favor  of  you  ;  a  great  favor,  which  1  hope  you  will  grant." 

"  Yes,  Col.  Schuyler,  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  I  will,"  she 
said,  and  he  went  on  : 

"  I  have  been  kind  to  you,  Gertie,  have  I  not,  ever  since  you 
first  came  to  live  with  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very,  very  kind,"  Gertie  answered,  wondering  at  the 
question,  and  his  reason  for  reminding  her  of  the  kindness. 

"  I  have  tried  to  do  you  good,"  he  said,  speaking  with  a  little 
hesitancy  now  ;  "  first  for  Mrs.  Schuyler's  sake,  and  lastly  be- 
cause I  liked  you  myself,  and  was  greatly  interested  in  you,  and 
felt  that  you  were  no  ordinary  girl.  I  tell  you  this  to  let  you 
know  that  the  favor  I  have  to  ask  has  nothing  to  do  with  you 
personally.  I  am  your  friend,  and  will  be  so  as  long  as  I  live, 
and  provide  for  you  at  my  death,  or  sooner  if  you  marry,  as  you 
probably  will, — girls  like  you  always  do,  and  I, — yes  I " 

What  was  he  going  to  say  to  her,  Gertie  wondered,  a  thought 
of  Tom  Barton  crossing  her  mind?  Was  Col.  Schuyler  about 
to  advocate  his  cause  ?  Impossible,  she  said  to  herself,  and 
waited  impatiently  for  him  to  proceed.  But  she  was  not  at  all 


284      COLONEL   SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE. 

prepared  for  the  abrupt  question  with  which  he  finally  plunged 
into  the  business. 

"  Gertie,  has  my  son  ever  made  love  to  you  ?  That  is,  has 
he  ever  said  or  done  anything  which  under  some  circumstances 
might  give  you  reason  to  think  him  more  interested  in  you  than 
in  another  ?  " 

There  was  a  violent  start,  and  Gertie's  face  was  crimson  as 
she  looked  across  the  table  at  the  man  questioning  her  thus, 
while  her  thoughts  leaped  backward  to  the  previous  night  and 
the  eyes  which  had  looked  so  tenderly  upon  her,  the  hands 
which  had  held  hers  so  fast,  and  the  voice  so  full  of  passion 
telling  her  of  the  lost  letters  and  saying  to  her  so  sadly  : 

"  If  you  had  received  them,  Gertie, — if  you  had,  I  might,  oh, 
who  knows  what  might  have  been  ?  " 

All  day  long  the  remembrance  of  that  interview  had  been 
in  her  mind,  filling  her  with  a  delicious  feeling  of  happiness  that 
Godfrey  did  care  for  her,  and  bringing  occasionally  a  pang  of 
regret  as  she  wondered  what  would  have  been  had  she  received 
his  letters.  She  had  never  dreamed  of  marriage  in  connection 
with  Godfrey.  She  had  always  supposed  that  he  belonged  to 
Alice,  and  so  she  did  not  know  the  real  nature  of  the  emotions 
Godfrey's  language  the  previous  night  had  called  into  being  un- 
til Col.  Schuyler  tore  the  veil  away  and  laid  her  heart  before 
her,  bare  and  palpitating  with  love  for  Godfrey,  his  son.  What 
right  had  he  to  question  her  thus,  and  how  could  she  answer 
him,  she  asked  herself,  as,  with  her  hands  locked  together,  and 
the  love  whose  existence  she  had  just  discovered  swelling  and 
surging  in  her  heart,  now  with  throbs  of  anguish  as  she  remem- 
bered Alice,  and  now  with  beats  of  joy  as  she  thought  of  God- 
frey, she  sat  motionless  and  silent,  until  the  colonel  spoke 
again  : 

"  You  do  not  answer  me,  and  from  that  I  infer  he  has  made 
love  to  you.  Was  it  last  night  ?  He  told  me  he  talked  with 
you.  Gertie,  this  must  not  be.  Godfrey  is  bound  to  Alice. 
It  was  settled  years  ago  in  our  families.  It  was  his  mother's 
dying  wish.  It  is  the  one  thing  I  desire  above  all  others.  I 
have  nothing  against  you,  Gertie, — nothing ;  but  Godfrey  must 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS  GERTIE.      285 

marry  Alice,  and  you  must  not  let  him  break  his  word  to 
her." 

He  spoke  rapidly,  glancing  only  once  at  the  face  opposite, 
which  was  white  as  ashes,  and  he  could  see  the  slight  figure 
sway  a  little  from  side  to  side,  while  a  sound  like  a  smothered 
sob  broke  on  his  ear,  and  then  Gertie  spoke,  very  low  and  very 
decidedly,  but  with  no  anger  in  her  voice. 

"  Col.  Schuyler,  you  need  not  fear  for  Godfrey.  He  never 
made  love  to  me,  though  I  think, — I  believe  it  would  be  easy 
for  me  to  tempt  him  to  do  so,  but  I  shall  not  try.  I  will  not 
be  the  serpent  in  your  Eden,  or  sting  the  hand  which  has  fed 
me.  You  have  been  too  kind  to  me  for  that.  I  shall  not  prove 
ungrateful." 

"God  bless  you,  Gertie.  I  was  sure  you  would  do  right.  It 
is  more  necessary  to  me  than  you  know  that  Godfrey  should 
marry  Alice,  and  you  have  lifted  a  great  burden  from  my  heart. 
Godfrey  is  impulsive  and  hot-headed,  and  easily  influenced,  and 
seeing  you  every  day  might  be  won  from  his  allegiance,  espe- 
cially as  I  do  not  think  his  whole  heart  is  in  this  marriage ;  but 
it  must  be,  and,  Gertie,  if  he  should  come  to  you  with  words 
of  love,  promise  me  you  will  refuse  to  listen.  I  shall  feel 
secure  then.  I  can  trust  you,  I  know.  Will  you  promise, 
Gertie  ?  " 

He  held  his  hand  toward  the  little,  cold,  white  fingers  resting 
on  the  table,  and  which  crept  slowly  on  till  they  lay  in  his  grasp, 
while  Gertie  said  : 

"  I  promise,  Colonel  Schuyler  ;  but, — but, — Godfrey, — I  did 
not  know  before  that  I  loved  him  so  much  until  now  that  I  am 
giving  him  up  fprever." 

Oh,  what  a  piteous  voice  it  was,  and  how  the  slight  frame 
shook  with  suppressed  sobs  and  tears  while  the  colonel  sat 
watching  and  wishing  so  much  to  comfort  her.  But  he  could 
not,  and  he  let  her  cry  on  for  a  few  moments,  when  he  said  : 

"  Gertie,  your  distress  pains  me  greatly,  but  you  are  young 
and  will  outlive  this  fancy ;  and,  Gertie,  it  has  occurred  to  me 
that  you  may  wish  to  go  away  for  the  summer  while  the  young 
people  are  here,  but  I  would  rather  you  should  stay.  Mrs. 


286      COLONEL   SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE. 

Schuyler  would  be  very  unhappy  without  you,  while  Godfrey,  I 
think,  would  be  discontented  and  follow  you,  perhaps.  It  is 
better,  on  the  whole,  to  stay  :  and  Gertie,  I  need  not  ask  that 
this  interview  shall  be  a  secret  between  us.  Not  even  my  wife 
must  know  of  it." 

Gertie  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  replied  : 

"  Colonel  Schuyler,  if  a  time  ever  comes  when  Godfrey 
speaks  to  me  of  love  I  shall  refuse  him,  as  I  promised,  but  I 
shall  tell  him  why.  I  must  do  that,  you  know  ! " 

And  with  this  Colonel  Schuyler  was  obliged  to  be  content. 
He  had  gained  his  point,  and  looked  upon. his  son's  marriage 
with  Alice  as  a  sure  thing,  and  he  felt  very  kind  and  tender 
toward  the  young  girl  whose  heart  he  had  wrung  so  cruelly,  and 
whose  sad  face  smote  him  as  he  bade  her  good-night  and 
blessed  her  for  what  she  had  promised. 

The  next  morning  Gertie  was  suffering  from  a  severe  head- 
ache and  did  not  appear  at  breakfast  or  lunch,  but  she  was 
better  in  the  afternoon  and  was  able  to  walk  to  Edith's  boudoir, 
where  she  lay  upon  the  couch  and  had  her  dinner  brought  to 
her.  As  she  was  about  to  eat  it  a  voice  said  at  the  door :  "  May 
I  come  in?"  and,  without  waiting  for  an  answei,  Godfrey  en- 
tered the  room.  He  had  heard  from  Edith  that  she  was  there, 
and  declining  the  dessert,  had  excused  himself  from  the  table 
and  gone  directly  to  her. 

"  See,  I  have  brought  you  a  pond  lily  and  a  bunch  of  blue 
violets,  because  I  remembered  how  much  you  used  to  like  them. 
-The  violets  are  just  the  color  of  your  eyes,"  he  said,  as  he  held 
them  so  close  to  her  that  his  hand  touched  her  white  cheek  and 
sent  the  hot  blood  to  it  suddenly. 

Then,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  her  couch,  he  began  to  talk 
as  easily  and  naturally  as  if  the  sight  of  her,  so  pale  and  languid 
and  sweet,  were  not  stirring  within  him  a  wild  tornado  of  feel- 
ing which,  had  he  known  of  the  answering  throb  in  her  heart, 
might  have  burst  its  bonds  and  trampled  down  every  right  of 
the  little  lady  coming  down  the  hall  ostensibly  to  call  on  Gertie, 
but  really  to  know  for  herself  if  Godfrey  was  there  with  her  ! 

"And  so  you  are  taking  your  dessert  here?     Really,  Miss 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE.      287 

Westbrooke,  I  shall  object  to  this,"  Alice  said,  as  she  entered 
the  room,  trying  to  speak  playfully,  though  there  was  that  in 
her  eyes  which  warned  Godfrey  not  to  provoke  her  too  far  if  he 
would  avoid  a  scene.  Spying  the  lily  she  snatched  it  up,  ex- 
claiming :  "  The  very  thing  I  was  wanting  for  my  hair  !  Where 
did  it  come  from  ?  " 

Gertie  glanced  at  Godfrey,  who  explained  : 

"  It  was  the  only  one  the  boy  had,  or  I  would  have  bought 
more." 

"  Oh,  you  brought  it  to  her,  then  ?  "  Alice  said,  dropping  it 
as  suddenly  as  if  it  had  been  plague-smitten,  while  Gertie  said, 
entreatingly  : 

"  Please  keep  it,  Miss  Creighton,  I  really  do  not  care  for 
it." 

"  Neither  do  I,  thank  you  ;"  and  with  a  very  low  bow  Alice 
left  the  room,  waiting  at  the  end  of  the  hall  till  Godfrey  saw  fit 
to  join  her. 

There  was  something  of  a  quarrel  between  the  two  lovers, 
who  walked  down  the  garden  to  a  retired  summer-house,  where, 
Godfrey  said,  they  could  have  it  out,  bidding  Alice  "  scratch 
and  bite  like  a  little  cat,  if  she  wanted  to." 

"  I  don't  want  to  scratch  nor  bite,  and  I  ain't  a  little  cat,  but 
I  do  not  think  it  fair  in  you  to  admire  that  girl  so  much,  and 
take  her  lilies  and  violets  and  things,  and  you  engaged  to  me," 
Alice  sobbed,  while  Godfrey,  who  knew  that  she  really  had  just 
cause  for  complaint,  tried  to  appease  her,  and  promised  not  to 
offend  again  so  far  as  Gertie  was  concerned. 

"Though  I  do  like  her,"  he  said,  "and  always  shall ;  but  I 
intend  to  be  loyal  to  you,  Allie,  and  mean  to  make  you  happy, 
and  I  want  you  to  remember  that,  and  not  flare  up  every  time 
I  happen  to  look  at  a  girl." 

And  Alice  promised  that  she  would  not,  and  took  his  proffer- 
ed kiss  of  reconciliation  very  graciously,  and  when,  in  the  early 
dusk  of  the  warm  summer  night,  I  walked  up  to  the  Hill  to  call 
on  the  young  ladies,  I  found  the  engaged  pair  sitting  by  them- 
selves at  the  far  end  of  the  piazza,  Alice  with  her  hand  clasping 
Godfrey's  arm,  while  she  told  him  something  to  which  he  seem- 


288    ROBERT  MACPHERSON  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE. 

ed  to  listen  in  a  preoccupied  kind  of  way,  as  if  he  hardly  knew 
what  she  was  saying  to  him. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

ROBERT   MACPHERSON    INTERVIEWS    GERTIE. 

|ERTIE  was  quite  well  the  next  day,  and  took  her  usual 
place  at  the  table,  and  when  breakfast  was  over  and 
Godfrey  and  the  young  ladies  had  gone  to  ride,  she 
strolled  out  to  the  little  cemetery,  which  looked  so  cool  and  in- 
viting with  the  white  marble  gleaming  through  the  evergreens 
and  climbing  vines.  Scarcely  was  she  seated  there  when  she 
heard  footsteps  near,  and  saw  Robert  Macpherson  coming 
rapidly  toward  her. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  I  have  followed  you  here  because  I 
wanted  to  be  alone  while  I  gave  you  something,  and  told  you 
something  which  should  have  been  told  and  given  before, 
only, — "  he  paused  a  moment,  looking  both  embarrassed  and 
distressed,  and  then  continued  hastily  :  "  I  am  a  coward  and  a 
fool !  Gertie,  were  you  ever  ashamed  to  tell  who  you  were  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Gertie  asked,  looking  curiously  at 
him. 

"  I  mean  that  my  blood  is  a  little  mixed,"  he  answered,  "but 
I  will  explain  that  by  and  by,  and  now  to  my  business.  I  think 
you  have  several  times  pressed  flowers  which  grew  on  this 
grave"  (pointing  to  Abelard's),  "and  sent  them  to  his  mother." 

"Yes.  I  have  pressed  them  for  Mrs.  Schuyler  to  send  two 
or  three  times  when  she  had  not  the  leisure,  and  have  written 
for  her  to  the  sweet-faced  old  lady  of  whom  she  once  told  me," 
Gertie  said,  and  Robert  rejoined  :  "  I  saw  that  old  lady  when 
I  was  abroad  the  last  time,  and  when  she  heard  I  was  coming 
here  she  told  me  of  Mrs.  Schuyler,  whom  she  had  seen,  and  of 
the  'bonnie  young  lassie'  who  took  such  care  of  her  boy's 
grave,  and  sent  her  flowers  from  it,  and  she  wrote  you  a  letter, 
Gertie,  because  she  said  you  seemed  very  near  to  her,  and  she 


ROBERT  MACPHERSON  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE.    289 

sent  you  some  'Cairngorms'  for  a  necklace  and  earrings. 
They  have  been  in  the  family  for  years,  and  she  intended  them 
for  her  oldest  grand-daughter,  but  she  died,  and  there  is  no 
other,  so  she  sent  them  to  you,  knowing  that  Mrs.  Schuyler  can 
have  far  more  precious  stones,  though  I  think  these  very  h^nd- 
some ;  they  are  almost  as  fine  as  a  tc  paz, — look,"  and  he  handed 
her  a  box  in  which  were  several  very  fine  Cairngorms  of  that 
variety  found  in  Aberdeenshire. 

"  Oh,  how  pretty,  how  beautiful !  "  Gertie  exclaimed,  hold- 
ing them  to  the  light.  "And  she  sent  them  to  me?  I  do  not 
understand  it." 

"  Read  her  letter  and  you  will  see  how  much  she  is  in- 
terested in  you,"  Robert  said,  handing  Gertie  a  large,  unsealed 
letter,  directed  in  a  very  peculiar  hand,  and  which  I  will  give 
in  part,  avoiding  as  much  as  possible  the  broad  Scotch  which 
made  it  so  unintelligible  that  Robert  was  obliged  himself  to 
read  it  to  Gertie  before  she  clearly  understood  it. 

"  My  bonnie  lassie,"  it  began,  "  an  old  crone  from  over  the 
sea  sends  you  her  blessing  and  prayers  for  the  care  you've 
tooken  of  my  puir  laddie's  grave,  and  the  posys  you've  sent, 
and  the  letters  you've  writ  with  the  same,  and  which  fetches  you 
very  near  to  my  heart  and  love,  and  so  I  send  you  these  stones 
from  Can-Gorrum,  to  wear  round  your  bonny  neck,  and  in  yer 
pretty  ears.  My  grandson,  Robert,  will  tell  you  how  his  puir 
mother  had  them,  and  gie  them  to  me  when  I  was  cauld,  and 
hungry,  and  sair ;  but  I  dinna  sell  them  for  the  siller,  as  she 
thinket  I  moight.  I  weatherit  the  storm,  Jinnie  and  me,  and 
kep  'em  for  her  ain  sweet  bairn,  Dolly,  who  died;  and  it's  not 
the  loikes  of  Jinnie  to  wear  sic  as  these,  and  her  lassies  bein' 
all  lads,  I  sends  them  to  you  with  my  blessin',  and  duty  to  the 
beautiful  Ladye  Skiller,  and  so  I  greet  you;  God  bless  you, 
good-by. 

"  MISTRESS  DORATHY  LYLE, 
"by  her  grandson  Robert." 

Gertie   had  listened   intently  until   the  point  was  reached 
where  reference  was  made  to  my  "  grandson  Robert,"  when  she 
started  up,  exclaiming  : 
13 


290     ROBERT  MACPHERSON  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE. 

"  IVhat?" 

"  Wait,"  Robert  said  ;  "  wait  till  I  am  through,"  and,  with  a 
shaking  voice,  he  finished  the  letter,  laying  a  good  deal  of  em- 
phasis upon  the  last  words,  "  by  my  grandson  Robert." 

"  Her  grandson  !  What  does  she  mean,  Mr.  Macpherson  ? 
Does  she  mean  you  /  "  Gertie  asked,  and  Robert  replied  : 

"Yes,  Gertie,  she  means  me.  I  am  that  woman's  grand- 
child, the  son  of  her  daughter,  and  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about 
it." 

He  spoke  rapidly,  and  Gertie  had  no  chance  to  interrupt 
him  as  he  went  on. 

"  My  mother  was  Dorothea  Lyle,  born  in  Alnwick,  in  the 
same  thatched  cottage  Mrs.  Schuyler  has  undoubtedly  described 
to  you.  She  was  the  eldest  child  and  beautiful, — the  Lyles  are 
all  good-looking,  and  mother  was  pre-eminently  so,  with  a  tol- 
erable education,  too,  acquired  from  a  lady  in  the  neighborhood 
who  was  interested  in  her,  and  in  whose  house  she  was  a  nur- 
sery governess.  It  was  there  she  met  my  father,  the  youngest 
son  of  an  old  Scotch  family,  which  had  a  title  in  reversion  and 
a  good  deal  of  money.  It  was  a  runaway  match,  which  the 
proud  Macphersons  tried  to  overthrow.  But  they  could  not, 
and  if  they  had,  my  father  would  have  married  his  beautiful 
Dolly  again.  He  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  taught  her  a  great 
deal  himself,  so  that  my  first  recollections  of  her  are  of  as  fine 
a  lady  in  speech  and  manner  as  any  I  have  ever  seen.  I  was 
born  in  Naples,  where  father  tried  to  earn  his  living  by  painting, 
for  he  was  a  natural  artist  and  we  were  very  poor,  as  his  family 
turned  him  off  and  would  not  receive  him  with  his  wife. 

"  It  was  about  this  time  that  Mrs.  Lyle  wrote  to  mother  of 
sickness  and  destitution,  and  asked  for  money  in  her  need,  but 
alas,  we  had  none,  and  mother  sent  these  Cairngorms,  which 
father  bought  for  her  when  she  was  married,  and  which  they  had 
never  been  able  to  have  set  for  herself.  She  thought  he  r  mother 
could  sell  them  for  bread,  but  she  would  not.  Her  fortunes 
brightened  a  little  just  then,  and  she  kept  the  stones  carefully, 
meaning  them  for  my  sister  on  her  bridal  day ;  but  that  day 
never  came.  I  told  you  of  my  sister  once,  and  that  you  looked 


ROBERT  MACPHERSON  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE.    291 

like  her.  She  was  so  beautiful,  and  I  loved  her  so  much,  but 
she  died  when  she  was  twelve  years  old,  and  the  only  picture 
we  had  of  her  was  burned.  Our  fortunes  were  mending  then. 
The  Macpherson  mother  was  dead,  and  the  father  sent  us  money, 
and  when  mother  died,  two  years  after  Dora,  father  and  I  were 
invited  to  Glenthorpe,  in  the  north  of  Scotland,  and  there  father 
lied,  and  by  my  grandfather's  will  I  came  into  possession,  at 
us  death,  of  a  large  sum  of  money,  and  now,  by  another  death, 
1.  have  a  right,  if  I  choose,  to  take  my  wife  to  Glenthorpe, 
should  I  ever  have  one,  which  I  probably  never  shall,  for  the 
girl  I  love  is  too  proud  to  marry  me,  knowing  who  I  am." 

Gertie  thought  of  Julia  Schuyler,  but  she  did  not  speak,  and 
after  a  moment  Robert  continued  : 

"You  wonder,  perhaps,  why  I  never  told  this  before,  and  I 
blush  to  own  that  I  was  ashamed  to  do  it  and  acknowledge  that 
I  was  anything  to  this  man  by  whose  grave  I  stand,  or  anything 
to  that  family  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schuyler  and  Godfrey  have 
seen.  I  think  people  who  have  been  very  poor,  and  have  come 
up  from  the  great  unwashed,  have  that  feeling  more  than  those 
to  the  manor  born,  and  though  I  have  tried  to  be  kind  to  my 
mother's  friends  so  far  as  gifts  are  concerned,  I  have  shrunk 
from  coming  in  contact  with  them,  especially  the  Aunt  Nesbit, 
of  whom  it  is  no  slander  to  say  she  is  very  coarse. 

11 1  went  first  to  see  them  years  ago,  just  before  coming  to 
America,  and  when  I  heard  of  their  acquaintance  with  the 
Schuylers  I  hesitated  about  crossing  the  sea  with  Godfrey,  but 
was  finally  persuaded  and  came  to  Hampstead  where  I  have 
felt  like  a  criminal  every  time  allusion  has  been  made  to  Abe- 
lard  Lyle.  Last  March  I  went  again  to  see  them,  and,  coward 
that  I  am,  did  not  tell  them  I  had  been  here,  only  that  I  was 
coming,  and  then  Mrs.  Lyle,  rny  grandmother,  spoke  of  you, 
and  asked  me  to  bring  the  letter  and  the  Cairngorms.  I  could 
not  refuse,  and  knew  then  I  must  tell  you  everything,  and  I 
have,  except,  indeed,  of  my  father's  family,  which  ranks  among 
the  first  in  Scotland.  Glenthorpe  is  a  beautiful  place  and  will 
be  my  home  in  future,  for  I  am  the  only  male  heir  left  to  that 
estate. 


292     ROBERT  MACPHERSON  INTERVIEWS   GERTIE. 

"  I  have  told  you  my  story,  Gertie,  and  will  not  ask  you  to 
keep  my  secret.  The  sooner  it  is  divulged  the  better,  perhaps, 
as  I  shall  then  know  the  worst  there  is  to  know,  with  regard  to 
the  girl  I  love.  She  will  never  marry  a  carpenter's  nephew ; 
her  father  would  not  permit  it  either." 

He  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  a  reply,  and  Gertie  said  at  last : 

"  Col.  Schuyler  is  very  proud,  and  she  is  prouder  than  he,  I 
think ;  but  Glenthorpe  may  reconcile  her  to  a  great  deal.  You 
must  tell  her  yourself,  however.  I  shall  not  help  you  there." 

"  But,  Gertie,  do  you  think  she  cares  for  me  ?  You  girls  can 
judge  of  each  other  better  than  men  can  judge  of  you.  Does 
she  like  me  ever  so  little,  think  you  ?  " 

Remembering  how,  from  the  first,  Julia  had  appropriated 
Robert  to  herself,  seeming  jealous  and  angry  of  his  slightest 
attention  to  another,  Gertie  replied  : 

"  If  you  should  ask  her  to  be  your  wife,  and  tell  her  nothing 
of  the  Lyles,  I  am  sure  she  would  say  yes,"  and  with  that  an- 
swer Robert  was  obliged  to  be  content,  but  there  was  a  shadow 
on  his  face,  which  lasted  for  a  week  or  more,  and  which  Julia's 
blandishments  and  coquetries  had  no  power  to  remove.  In- 
deed, he  hardly  seemed  to  notice  them  or  her,  and  when  God- 
frey rallied  him,  and  asked  what  wasrthe  matter,  he  answered 
that  he  was  pining  for  Glenthorpe,  and  began  to  talk  seriously 
of  going  back  to  Scotland  ;  but  to  this  Godfrey  would  not  listen, 
and  when  Julia's  eyes  looked  at  him  pleadingly  as  she  said : 
"  Don't  go  till  fall,  Mr.  Macpherson  ;"  while  Emma,  who  seldom 
said  much,  expressed  a  strong  desire  for  him  to  remain,  he  give 
up  Glenthorpe  for  the  summer,  and  stayed  at  Schuyler  Hill. 

Meantime  Gertie's  present  had  been  shown,  and  discussed, 
and  admired  by  Edith,  and  Emma,  and  Godfrey,  while  Alice 
wondered  if  they  were  real  Cairngorms,  and  Julia  had  said,  in 
Robert's  hearing,  that  she'd  like  to  see  herself  wearing  stones 
which  came  from  such  a  source,  and  the  colonel  had  offered  to 
send  them  to  New  York  and  have  them  set  handsomely.  But 
this  Gertie  would  not  permit.  She  had  a  plan  in  her  mind 
which  she  hoped  some  day  to  carry  out,  and  test  Miss  Julia's 
unwillingness  to  "  wear  stones  from  such  a  source  "  as  that  white- 


DETAILS  OF   THAT  SUMMER  IN  HAMPSTEAD.    293 

haired  woman  over  the  sea,  whom  the  proud  beauty  teasingly 
called  "  Gertie's  godmother." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A    FEW   DETAILS    OF   THAT   SUMMER    IN   HAMPSTEAD. 

JHERE  were  many  guests  at  the  Bartons',  and  the  Mont- 
gomeries',  and  the  Morrises,  that  summer,  but  no- 
where was  there  so  much  hilarity  and  mirth  as  at 
Schuyler  Hill,  for  there  from  time  to  time  came  dashing,  bril- 
liant people  from  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  and  every  room 
was  full,  and  Godfrey  took  a  small  apartment  in  the  attic,  and 
made  many  jokes  upon  the  high  life  he  was  enjoying.  There 
were  sails  upon  the  river,  and  excursions  to  the  mountains,  and 
picnics  in  the  woods,  and  dances  on  the  piazza,  and  croquet 
parties  on  the  lawn,  and  dinners,  and  suppers,  and  breakfasts, 
and  lunches,  and  private  theatricals  in  the  great  drawing-room  ; 
and  toward  the  close  of  the  summer  there  was  a  grand  party  at 
the  Ridge  House,  to  which  the  young  people  from  the  Hill 
were  bidden,  and  Alice's  toilet  was  wonderful  in  texture  and 
style,  while  Julia  was  pronounced  the  most  beautiful  lady  there, 
until  Gertie  came,  in  her  simple  muslin  dress,  and  eclipsed 
them  all.  It  was  rather  late  when  she  entered  the  crowded 
rooms,  and  after  greeting  Mrs.  Barton  and  Rosamond  drifted 
away  from  the  colonel,  who  had  accompanied  her,  and  found 
herself  close  to  Godfrey  before  she  was  aware  of  his  proximity. 
Since  that  promise  to  his  father,  she  had  studiously  avoided 
him,  and  Alice  had  no  just  cause  for  jealousy  so  far  as  Gertie 
was  concerned.  Godfrey,  too,  had  made  up  his  mind  to  ac- 
cept his  fate,  and  kept  aloof  from  Gertie  as  much  as  possible, 
though  there  was  a  world  of  kindness  in  his  voice  whenever  he 
spoke  to  her,  and  he  always  knew  when  she  came  in  and  when 
she  went  out,  and  his  eyes  followed  her  with  a  longing,  hungry 
look,  which  Alice  would  have  resented,  had  she  noticed  it  and 


294  DETAILS  OF  THAT  SUMMER  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

interpreted  it  aright.  But  she  was  not  quick  to  see,  and  as 
Godfrey  was  very  attentive  to  her,  and  called  her  his  little  cat, 
and  teased  her  unmercifully,  and  kissed  her  every  morning,  she 
was  satisfied  and  happy,  and  on  the  night  of  the  party  stood, 
flushed  and  triumphant,  at  his  side,  while  he  fanned  her  heated 
face,  telling  her  she  must  not  dance  again  for  an  hour  at  least, 
no  matter  who  asked  her ;  it  was  too  warm  for  such  exercise, 
and  he  preferred  the  open  air ;  he  did  not  mean  to  dance  him- 
self if  he  could  help  it,  and  if  Alice  liked  they'd  go  out  upon 
the  west  balcony,  where  it  was  cooler. 

There  had  been  a  cloud  on  Godfrey's  face  the  entire  evening, 
and  his  eyes  were  constantly  wandering  over  the  moving  throng 
in  quest  of  one  they  did  not  see. 

"Where  is  Miss  Westbrooke?  "  Tom  Barton  had  asked  him 
anxiously,  but  Godfrey  could  not  tell  him. 

She  was  intending  to  come  with  his  father,  he  said,  and  possi- 
bly had  not  yet  arrived ;  and  as  the  festivity  was  nothing  to  Tom 
without  Gertie,  he  sauntered  away  to  an  open  window,  and 
when  Rosamond  asked  him  to  dance  with  a  young  lady  who 
was  a  guest  at  the  Ridge  House,  and  who  had  been  a  wall- 
flower all  the  evening,  he  answered,  "Oh,  bother  !  I  can't;  it's 
too  hot.  I'm  melting  now,"  and  stepped  through  the  window 
upon  the  balcony  to  be  out  of  the  way. 

Neither  he  nor  Godfrey  cared  to  dance,  though  both  had  in 
their  minds  a  graceful  little  figure  which  they  would  gladly  have 
whirled  about  the  room,  and  when  at  last  she  appeared  and 
came  upon  Godfrey  just  as  he  had  proposed  going  out  upon 
the  piazza  with  Alice,  he  forgot  everything  but  his  surprise  and 
delight  at  seeing  her,  and  exclaimed,  joyfully  : 

"Oh,  Gertie,  I'm  so  glad  you  have  come.  I've  been  wait- 
ing for  you  to  dance  with  me.  Come,  they  are  just  forming  a 
new  set." 

He  held  both  his  arms  toward  her,  and  Gertie,  unmindful  of 
everything  and  seeing  nothing  but  the  look  in  Godfrey's  eyes 
and  the  arms  held  to  her,  went  straight  into  them,  thinking  to 
herself,  "  For  j  ist  this  once, — I  may  be  happy  with  him." 

And  she  was  happy,  and  Godfrey,  too, — and  people  looked 


DETAILS   OF   THAT  SUMMER  IN  HAMPSTEAD.    295 

admiringly  at  the  handsome  pair,  and  strangers  asked  who  the 
beautiful  girl  with  the  bright  hair  and  simple  dress  was,  and 
where  she  came  from. 

I  was  at  the  party  that  night,  and  stood  very  near  to  Alice, 
when  Gertie  came  in  and  was  snatched  up  so  quickly  by  God- 
frey. I  had  heard  him  announce  his  intention  not  to  dance, 
and  ask  Alice  to  go  with  him  where  it  was  cooler,  and  Alice 
had  taken  a  step  toward  the  door  when  Gertie  came  and 
changed  the  entire  aspect  of  affairs. 

"  Godfrey,"  I  heard  Alice  say,  as  her  lover  moved  away  from 
her,  but  Godfrey  was  deaf  and  blind  to  everything  but  the  girl 
on  his  arm,  and  Alice  called  in  vain. 

Godfrey  had  teased  her  for  her  red  face,  but  it  was  pale 
enough  now,  and  her  small  eyes  had  in  them  a  greenish  light  as 
they  followed  Godfrey's  tall  form  and  caught  occasional  glimpses 
of  Gertie's  long,  bright  curls  which  came  below  her  waist  and 
were  the  wonder  of  the  room.  Alice  was  very  indignant,  and 
when  the  question  was  put  to  her,  "  Who  is  that  beautiful  girl 
dancing  with  Mr.  Schuyler  ? "  she  stood  on  tiptoe,  and  pre- 
tending to  be  looking  toward  the  dancers,  answered  with  sup- 
pressed bitterness : 

"  Oh,  that  is  Gertie  Westbrooke,  a  girl  who  lives  with  Mrs. 
Schuyler,  and  sees  a  little  to  Arthur, — a  kind  of  nursery  gover- 
ness, I  believe." 

"Ah,  yes,  thank  you,"  and  Mrs.  Jamieson,  from  Philadel- 
phia, put  up  her  glass  to  look  again  at  the  girl  "  who  lived  with 
Mrs.  Schuyler  and  was  a  kind  of  nursery  governess." 

Meanwhile  Godfrey  and  Gertie  were  unmindful  of  every- 
thing but  the  fact  that  for  a  brief  space  they  were  together, 
hand  touching  hand  in  a  clasp  of  love  rather  than  form,  and 
eye  meeting  eye  with  a  sad,  remorseful  kind  of  pitying  tender- 
ness, as  if  each  knew  they  were  tasting  forbidden  fruit  and  for 
the  last  time,  too.  This,  at  least,  was  Godfrey's  thought.  To- 
morrow it  would  all  be  over,  and  he  would  be  Alice's  again, 
but  to-night  he  was  Gertie's  and  she  was  his,  and  he  abandoned 
himself  to  the  delight  until  he  seemed  intoxicated  with  happi- 
ness. He  had  never  danced  with  her  since  the  memorable 


296   DETAILS  OF   THAT  SUMMER  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

church  sociable  years  ago,  when  she  was  a  little,  airy,  rest- 
less humming-bird,  who  had  infused  something  of  her  own  life 
and  elasticity  into  his  rather  languid  movements  and  made  him 
try  to  be  worthy  of  his  partner.  Gertie  was  very  young  then, 
and  no  thought  of  calling  her  his  had  entered  Godfrey's  heart, 
where  now  the  sad  refrain  was  repeating  itself  over  and  over 
again,  "  It  might  have  been,  It  might  have  been." 

There  was  another  dance,  and  another,  and  then  Godfrey  led 
Gertie  out  upon  the  west  balcony  where  he  had  proposed  taking 
Alice,  and  where  he  now  sat  down  with  Gertie  at  his  side,  and 
looking  into  her  eyes  of  blue  forgot  the  eyes  of  gray  which  had 
followed  his  every  movement,  and  in  which  were  little  gleams 
of  fire  when  they  saw  him  going  out,  and  the  care  he  took  to 
wrap  Gertie's  cloak  around  her  arms  and  shoulders.  It  cer- 
tainly was  not  chance  which  led  Alice  that  way ;  she  went  on 
purpose  with  a  group  of  heated  girls  eager  for  a  breath  of  air, 
and  her  garments  swept  against  Gertie's  as  she  went  by,  and 
the  green  eyes  looked  at  Godfrey  with  a  look  he  understood 
and  did  not  resent,  for  he  knew  that  he  deserved  it,  but  he  was 
not  penitent  and  he  did  not  give  Gertie  up  until  his  father,  who 
had  been  talking  politics  in  a  distant  room,  and  did  not  know 
of  his  son's  misdemeanor,  came  to  find  her  and  take  her  out  to 
supper.  Then  Godfrey  went  in  quest  of  Alice,  but  she  was  al- 
ready appropriated  by  a  young  Bostonian,  who  waxed  his  mus- 
tache and  wore  a  quizzing  glass  on  his  nose,  and  her  only 
answer  was  a  little  defiant  snort  when  Godfrey  said  :  "  I  see  I 
am  too  late."  So  Godfrey  took  me  out  and  was  restless  and 
excited  and  full  of  life  and  fun.  But  I  saw  that  his  spirits  were 
forced,  and  that  his  eyes  went  often  to  the  part  of  the  room 
where  Gertie  stood,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  gentlemen  who 
were  ostensibly  talking  to  Colonel  Schuyler,  but  really  admiring 
her  as  the  most  beautiful  lady  there.  Alice  was  standing  near 
us,  and  once  Godfrey  offered  her  some  lobster  salad  with  a 
comical  look  on  his  face,  but  Alice  did  not  take  it  or  respond 
to  him  in  any  way,  and  I  knew  there  was  a  quarrel  in  store  for 
him,  and  pitied  him  because  he  was  answerable  for  his  actions 
to  that  little  pug-nosed  lady  whose  only  attraction,  beside  a 


THE  SAIL    ON  THE  RIVER.  297 

certain  grace  and  piquancy  of  manner,  was  thirty  thousand  a 
year. 

I  do  not  think  she  spoke  to  him  again  that  night,  and  I  know 
she  did  not  ride  home  with  him,  for  I  saw  the  four  girls  from  the 
Hill  stowed  away  with  Colonel  Schuyler,  and  heard  Godfrey 
tell  his  father  not  to  send  the  carriage  back,  as  he  and  Robert 
preferred  to  walk.  And  so  the  party  was  over  and  one  heart 
at  least  was  sadder  for  it,  and  one  was  in  a  wild  tumult  of  joy 
and  regret  as  it  recalled  glances  and  tones  which  meant  so 
much  and  which  had  come  too  late  to  be  of  any  avail. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE   SAIL    ON    THE  RIVER. 

JHE  morning  succeeding  the  party  was  hot  and  sultry, 
and  two,  at  least,  of  the  young  ladies  at  Schuyler  Hill 
were  cross,  and  tired,  and  worn  when  they  joined  the 
family  at  breakfast.  Alice  had  slept  but  little,  and  her  temper 
was  still  at  the  boiling  point  when  she  went  down  to  the  table, 
where  she  scarcely  spoke  at  all,  while  Julia,  who  had  a  head- 
ache, was  not  much  better.  Both  were  fagged  out,  and  after 
breakfast  announced  their  intention  to  keep  their  rooms  the  en- 
tire morning. 

"  But  I  thought  we  were  to  have  a  sail  up  the  river,  and  call 
at  the  Piersons',"  Godfrey  said  ;  and  Alice,  to  whom  the  remark 
was  addressed,  replied  : 

"I've  changed  my  mind,  and  do  not  care  to  go.  You  can 
take  Gertie  in  my  place." 

"  Very  well,"  Godfrey  answered,  accepting  the  gauntlet  she 
threw  down  ;  and  going  at  once  to  Gertie,  he  explained  that  he 
and  Robert  and  his  sisters  were  going  to  call  upon  the  Misses 
Pierson,  and  he  would  like  her  to  accompany  them. 

Of  all  the  city  people  in  the  neighborhood  the  Piersons  had 
been  the  most  polite  to  Gertie,  and  she  signified  at  once  her 
willingness  to  go.  Ten  was  the  hour  fixed  upon,  and  before 
13* 


«98  THE  SAIL   ON  THE  RIVER. 

that  time  came  Alice  had  changed  her  mind,  and  when  Godfrey 
and  Robert  joined  the  ladies  upon  the  piazza,  preparatory  to 
starting,  they  found  Miss  Creighton  with  them,  her  face  a  little 
brighter  and  herself  very  anxious  about  her  fluted  dress,  which 
she  was  afraid  would  be  crumpled  with  so  many  in  the  boat. 
Gertie  paid  no  attention  to  the  hint,  and  of  all  the  party  seemed 
to  enjoy  the  sail  and  the  call  the  most.  The  Misses  Pierson 
were  glad  to  see  them,  and  kept  them  till  after  lunch,  when 
Godfrey  hurried  them  to  the  boat,  pointing  out  a  mass  of 
thunder-clouds  in  the  west,  and  saying  they  must  get  home  be- 
fore the  shower.  There  was  ample  time  for  it,  he  said,  but  for 
once  he  miscalculated,  and  though  he  and  Robert  rowed  with 
all  their  strength,  they  were  but  little  more  than  half  way  across 
the  river  when  the  first  rain-drops  began  to  fall,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  storm  was  upon  them  in  peals  of  thunder  and 
dashes  of  rain  and  gusts  of  wind  which  rocked  the  boat  from 
side  to  side,  and  made  Alice  cry  out  with  fear  as  she  sprang  up 
to  avoid  a  wave  which  came  plashing  in  and  wet  her  fluted  dress. 

"  Keep  quiet,  Allie,  or  you'll  upset  the  boat,"  Godfrey  said, 
sternly. 

Alice  began  to  cry,  and  whimpered  that  her  dress  was  spoiled, 
and  said  some  of  them  ought  not  to  have  come  ;  there  were  too 
many  in  the  boat,  and  she  knew  it  all  the  while. 

"  Why  didn't  you  stay  out,  then  ?  "  Julia  asked ;  and  then  Alice 
cried  harder,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  fear  as  peal  after  peal  of 
thunder  rolled  over  their  heads  and  crashed  up  the  mountain 
side,  while  the  lurid  lightning,  flash  after  flash,  broke  through 
the  inky  sky,  and  blinding  sheets  of  rain  and  wind  swept  down 
the  river,  threatening  each  moment  to  ingulf  the  boat,  as  yet 
riding  the  waves  so  bravely.  It  was  a  terrible  storm,  and 
seemed  to  increase  each  moment,  while  the  white  faces  looked 
at  each  other  anxiously,  and  the  pale  lips  made  no  sound  until 
Godfrey's  oar  snapped  in  two,  and  a  wave  carried  it  far  out 
upon  the  angry  waters.  Then  Alice  shrieked  :  "  We  are  lost ; 
we  shall  all  be  drowned,"  and  bounding  up  she  lost  her  balance 
and  fell  heavily  across  one  side  of  the  boat,  which  was  instantly 
upset,  arid  six  humanj>eings  were  struggling  madly  in  the  river. 


THE  SAIL    ON  THE  RIVER.  299 

"Godfrey,  Godfrey,"  two  voices  called  above  the  storro,  one 
loud,  piercing  and  peremptory  as  if  it  had  the  right,  the  other 
tender,  beseeching  and  low,  as  of  a  spirit  going  out  into  the 
darkness  and  saying  a  farewell  to  one  it  had  loved  so  fondly. 

Two  voices  called,  "  Godfrey,  Godfrey,"  above  the  storm ; 
but  Godfrey  heard  only  one,  and  freeing  himself  from  something 
which  held  him  fast,  and  which  in  his  mad  excitement  he  did 
not  know  was  a  pair  of  clinging  hands,  he  struck  out  for  the 
place  where,  just  above  the  water,  he  caught  one  glimpse  of  a 
white,  scared  face,  and  tresses  of  long  bright  hair  disappearing 
from  his  sight.  With  a  courage  and  energy  born  of  love  and 
despair  he  reached  the  spot,  and  plunging  his  hand  beneath  the 
wave,  reached  for  the  long  bright  hair,  felt  it,  clutched  it  firmly, 
and  drew  again  into  view  the  pallid  face  on  which  the  hue  of 
death  had  settled,  and  winding  his  arm  about  the  slender  waist, 
swam  for  the  shore,  which  was  fortunately  so  near  that  his  feet 
soon  touched  the  bottom,  and  he  struggled  up  the  bank  with 
his  unconscious  burden.  Laying  it  gently  down,  and  pressing 
one  kiss  upon  the  white  lips,  he  turned  to  retrace  his  steps,  for 
a  thought  of  Alice  and  his  sisters  had  come  over  him,  but  when 
he  saw  them  at  some  little  distance  down  the  river,  struggling 
on  their  feet,  he  went  back  to  Gertie,  who  lay  in  the  same 
death-like  swoon,  with  her  hands  folded  upon  her  breast,  and  a 
smile  wreathing  her  lips,  as  if  her  last  thought  had  been  one  of 
peace  and  happiness.  Very  gently  Godfrey  lifted  her  up,  and 
wringing  the  water  from  her  hair,  held  her  head  upon  his  breast 
while  he  showered  kiss  after  kiss  upon  her  forehead  and  lips, 
murmuring  as  he  did  so :  "  Gertie,  my  darling,  you  cannot,  you 
must  not  be  dead.  Oh,  Gertie,  open  your  eyes  on  me  once, 
and  hear  me  tell  how  much  I  love  you." 

But  the  eyes  did  not  unclose,  nor  the  lips  he  kissed  so  passion- 
ately kiss  him  back  again,  and  without  knowing  to  whom  he 
spoke,  or  stopping  to  think  who  was  standing  by  him,  he  said, 
so  sadly : 

"  Gertie  is  dead." 

There  was  a  rain  of  tears  upon  his  face  as  he  spoke,  and  a 
look  of  anguish  in  his  eyes,  but  he  met  with  no  answering 


joo  THE  SAIL    ON  THE  RIVER. 

sympathy  from  the  motionless  figure  near  him.  It  was  Alice, 
who  stood  there  drenched  to  the  skin,  the  fluting  and  the  starch 
all  out  of  her  dress,  the  crimp  all  out  of  her  hair,  and  the  fire 
of  a  hundred  volcanoes  in  the  eyes  which  gazed  so  pitilessly 
upon  the  unconscious  Gertie,  while  a  smile  of  bitter  scorn 
curled  her  lips  and  intense  anger  sounded  in  her  voice  as  she 
said: 

"  Godfrey  Schuyler,  from  this  moment  our  paths  diverge.  I 
can  have  no  faith  in  one  who  deliberately  thrusts  aside  his 
promised  wife  to  save  the  life  of  another.  You  did  this,  God- 
frey Schuyler,  when  you  knew  I  was  drowning,  and  I  hate  you 
for  it,  and  give  you  back  your  freedom  with  your  ring." 

Alice's  temper  had  increased  with  every  word  she  uttered, 
and  snatching  off  the  superb  diamond  selected  by  herself  at 
Tiffany's,  she  threw  it  toward  Godfrey,  who,  stunned  and  be- 
wildered, did  not  at  first  realize  what  she  was  saying,  or  what 
she  meant  by  it.  A  faint  recollection  he  had  of  being  clutched 
by  somebody  in  the  water  and  freeing  himself  from  the  grasp, 
but  he  did  not  know  it  was  Alice,  who,  when  she  realized  that 
he  was  putting  her  from  him,  felt  that  all  hope  was  gone,  until 
Julia's  voice  called  out  :  "  Cling  to  the  boat,  Alice  ;  cling  to 
the  boat,  as  I  am  doing." 

The  next  she  knew  she  was  clinging  to  the  boat  to  which  she 
and  Julia  held  until  aid  came  from  two  boatmen  who  had  been 
near  them  on  the  river  when  the  accident  occurred,  and  who 
took  them  safely  to  the  shore,  which  Robert  had  reached  before 
them  with  Emma  at  his  side  !  Julia  had  been  deserted,  too, 
and  though  Robert  had  not  put  her  from  him,  he  had  made  no 
effort  to  save  her,  but  had  grasped  her  sister's  arm  and  said,  in 
her  hearing  :  "  Don't  be  afraid,  Emma,  darling,  the  shore  is  very 
near ;  keep  your  head  above  the  water  and  I  will  not  let  you 
drown." 

But  for  the  name  Emma,  Julia  might  have  fancied  he  made 
a  mistake,  but  that  settled  it  beyond  a  doubt ;  and  a  pain  like 
the  cut  of  a  knife  ran  through  her  heart  as  she  held  to  the  side 
of  the  boat,  and  saw  her  sister  borne  away  by  one  whom  she 
had  appropriated  to  herself  so  long.  Once  safe  upon  the  land 


THE   SAIL    ON  THE  RIVER.  301 

she  went  to  the  spot  where  Robert  stood  wringing  the  water 
from  her  sister's  dress,  and  then,  overcome  with  nervousness, 
and  terror,  and  bitter  disappointment,  she  uttered  a  low  cry 
and  fell  half-fainting  upon  the  sand.  Ordinarily,  Alice  would 
have  stopped  to  help  her,  but  her  interest  was  centred  in  that 
other  group,  farther  up  the  river,  and  making  her  way  thither, 
she  reached  it  in  time  to  hear  Godfrey's  words :  "  Open  your 
eyes  once  more  and  hear  me  tell  how  much  I  love  you  ! " 

And  he  who  said  this  was  her  promised  husband,  and  she  to 
whom  he  said  it  an  obscure  girl,  whom,  a  few  weeks  since, 
Alice  would  have  thought  it  impossible  for  one  in  Godfrey's 
position  really  to  love.  Even  now  she  could  not  believe  him 
in  earnest,  but  there  was  bitter  anger  and  resentment  in  her 
heart,  prompting  her  in  the  heat  of  her  passion  to  give  him 
back  his  freedom  with  the  ring,  which,  striking  against  his 
shoulder,  bounded  off  and  fell  on  Gertie's  death-white  face. 

"  Don't,  you  hurt  her,"  Godfrey  said,  softly,  as  he  picked  up 
the  ring  and  turned  it  over  in  his  hand,  while  a  perception  of 
the  truth  began  to  dawn  upon  him. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  he  asked  ;  and  Alice  replied  : 

"  I  told  you  you  were  free  to  love  your  Gertie  all  you  please, 
and  I  meant  it,  too,  for  I  hate  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Alice  ;  thank  you  so  much,  only  it  has  come 
too  late,"  Godfrey  replied  ;  and  slipping  the  ring  upon  Gertie's 
cold  finger,  he  continued,  "  See,  it  fits  ;  and  I'd  rather  have  it 
there  on  her  dead  hand  than  on  the  hand  of  any  other  woman 
living,  but  it  is  there  too  late." 

Was  he  going  crazy  because  of  that  pale  girl  lying  there  in  a 
state  so  near  resembling  death,  that  it  was  not  strange  for  the 
eye  of  love  to  be  mistaken  ?  Alice  did  not  know  ;  but  some- 
thing in  his  voice  and  manner  roused  the  little  womanly  sym- 
pathy she  had  remaining  in  her  then,  and  she  said  to  him 
sharply  :  "  I  tell  you  she  is  not  dead.  It  is  only  a  faint,  but 
she  ought  to  have  care.  Take  her  somewhere,  can't  you  ?  or 
let  these  men  do  it  for  you ; "  and  she  turned  to  the  boatmen 
who  had  saved  her  own  and  Julia's  life,  and  who  had  now  come 
up  with  offers  of  assistance. 


302  THE  SAIL   ON  THE  RIVER. 

11  She  must  be  seen  to  ;  she's  in  a  swound"  they  said,  point- 
ing to  Gertie.  "  Shall  we  carry  her  to  the  town  ?  " 

But  Godfrey  would  not  let  them  touch  her,  and  buoyed  up 
with  hope  which  gave  him  strength,  he  gathered  the  limp  form 
in  his  arms  and  ran  rather  than  walked  toward  the  village. 

Our  house  stands  at  the  entrance  of  the  town  just  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  and  as  the  storm  was  over  I  had  opened  the 
door  to  let  in  the  cool,  sweet  air,  when  I  saw  the  strange  pro- 
cession coming,— Godfrey  with  something  in  his  arms,  which  I 
at  first  mistook  for  a  child,  so  small  it  looked  and  so  closely  he 
held  it  to  him ;  Alice  following  after,  more  like  a  mermaid  in 
appearance  than  the  ruffled  and  fluted  and  furbelowed  young 
lady  whom  I  was  wont  to  see,  and  the  two  boatmen  bringing  up 
the  rear  with  Godfrey's  hat  and  Alice's  parasol. 

"  What  is  it,  Godfrey  ?  "  I  asked,  as  I  went  out  to  meet  him, 
and  when  I  saw  what  it  was,  I  bade  him  bring  her  in  at  once, 
for  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 

He  laid  her  on  my  bed,  and  then,  while  one  of  the  men  went 
for  the  doctor,  we  did  for  her  all  we  had  heard  must  be  done 
for  the  drowning,  and  with  such  good  result,  that  when  the  doc- 
tor came  the  patient  had  already  shown  signs  of  returning  con- 
sciousness, and  the  breath  was  plainly  perceptible  through  the 
pale  lips  whose  first  word  was,  "  Godfrey,  save  me  !  " 

She  thought  herself  still  in  the  river,  and  when  Godfrey,  un- 
mindful of  us  all,  and  caring  little  that  just  outside  the  door 
Alice  watched  and  waited,  bent  over  her,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  here,  darling  ;  I  have  saved  you  !  "  she  put  up  both 
her  arms  and  wound  them  round  him  with  a  convulsive  clasp, 
while  Alice  came  a  step  nearer,  and  stood  within  the  room. 
She  had  exchanged  her  saturated  clothes  for  a  suit  of  mine,  and 
with  a  shawl  wrapped  about  her,  stood,  with  chattering  teeth, 
watching  Godfrey  as  he  unclasped  the  hands  from  his  neck 
and  rubbed  them  with  his  own,  and  rubbed  the  fair  arms,  and 
the  pale  forehead,  and  smoothed  the  long,  damp  hair,  and  gave 
the  restoratives,  until  the  blue  eyes  unclosed  and  looked  at  him 
with  sonic-thing  more  than  recognition  in  their  glance.  Then 
Godfrey  was  persuaded  to  leave  her  and  don  the  drj  garments 


THE  SAIL   ON  THE  RIVER,  303 

of  my  brother,  which  had  been  waiting  for  him  in  an  adjoining 
room. 

As  he  passed  out  he  stumbled  over  a  little  crumpled  figure 
sitting  upon  a  stool  just  inside  the  door,  and  looking  down  upon 
it,  he  saw  that  it  was  Alice. 

"  Why,  Allie,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "I  thought  you  had  gone 
home  !  Have  you  been  here  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Godfrey,  all  the  time  ! "  and  a  tear  stood  on  Alice's 
eyelashes,  and  her  voice  was  not  much  like  the  voice  which  an 
hour  before  had  said  so  bitterly,  "  I  hate  you." 

Alice  never  harbored  resentment  long,  and  her  heart  was 
very  sore  as  she  recalled  the  scene  on  the  river-bank,  and  won- 
dered if  Godfrey  had  taken  her  angry  words  in  earnest  and  felt 
himself  free  from  her.  He  could  not, — he  must  not, — he  was 
not  free.  He  had  been  hers  for  years,  and  though  she  did  not 
know  what  love  was  in  its  full  extent,  she  had  a  pride  in  him 
and  a  liking  for  him  such  as  she  had  never  felt  for  any  other 
man,  and  as  she  sat  there  by  the  door  and  watched  him  bend- 
ing over  the  still  form  on  the  bed,  she  was  conscious  of  a  new 
sensation  throbbing  through  her  heart,  and  when  he  passed  her 
on  his  way  out  she  could  hardly  restrain  herself  from  stopping 
him  and  suing  for  pardon.  She  did  not  mean  what  she  said 
when  in  her  madness  she  had  set  him  free,  and  thrown  back  the 
ring  now  flashing  on  Gertie's  finger.  Alice  knew  where  it  was, 
and  watched  it  with  a  strange  gleam  in  her  eyes,  while  a  resolu- 
tion was  forming  in  her  mind.  The  ring  was  hers,  and  she 
would  have  it ;  and  rising  from  her  seat  she  went  swiftly  to  the 
bedside,  and  seizing  Gertie's  hand,  wrenched  the  ring  from  the 
unresisting  finger  and  placed  it  on  her  own. 

The  act  must  have  hurt  Gertie,  for  she  winced,  and,  opening 
her  eyes,  said  : 

"  Is  it  you,  Miss  Creighton  ?     Are  you  safe  ?  " 

Alice  did  not  reply  :  she  had  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  and 
hastened  out  to  meet  Col.  Schuyler  and  Edith,  who  had  come 
to  take  her  and  Gertie  to  the  Hill. 

Julia  had  recovered  from  her  half-faint,  and,  supported  by 
"ilobert  and  Emma,  had  walked  home,  and  gone  at  once  to  her 


3°4      LOVE'S  COURSE  DOES  NOT  RUN  SMOOTH. 

room,  where  she  was  attended  by  her  maid  ;  while  Emma  and 
Robert  explained  what  had  happened,  and  told  where  the  rest 
of  the  party  could  be  found. 

Greatly  alarmed  at  the  account  given  of  Gertie,  Edith  had 
come  at  once  to  take  her  home,  if  possible  ;  but  this  neither  the 
doctor  nor  myself  thought  advisable.  It  was  better  for  her  to  re- 
main quietly  where  she  was  for  a  few  days,  and  so  the  carriage 
returned  without  her,  Edith  promising  to  come  again  the  next 
morning  and  see  how  she  was. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE    COURSE    OF   LOVE    DOES    NOT   RUN    SMOOTH. 

|UST  before  leaving,  Godfrey  went  to  Gertie,  and, 
bending  over  her  whispered  a  few  words  so  low  that 
no  one  heard  them  except  the  one  for  whom  they 
were  intended,  and  whose  eye  brightened  as  he  said  : 

"  Good-by,  darling.  I  must  go  now,  but  shall  come  early  to- 
morrow morning." 

He  was  holding  her  hand,  and  he  noticed  the  absence  of  the 
ring  and  the  scratch  the  stone  had  made  when  it  was  wrenched 
away.  Instantly  a  cloud  passed  over  his  face  and  he  looked 
searchingly  at  Gertie,  but  she  knew  nothing ;  and  then  he 
glanced  at  me. 

"  Ettie,  if  you  find  anything  of  value  about  Gertie's  person, 
or  on  the  floor,  keep  it  till  I  come  again,"  he  said ;  and  then 
1  knew  he  meant  the  ring,  and  was  puzzled  more  than  ever. 

Should  I  tell  him  where  it  was.  No ;  he  would  see  it  for 
himself,  I  decided,  as  he  went  out  from  the  room  and  joined  his 
father  and  the  ladies  at  the  door. 

Alice's  gloves  were  ruined,  and  she  stood  holding  my  water- 
proof around  her  with  the  bare  hand  on  which  the  gem  was 
shining.  But  Godfrey  did  not  see  it  until  he  helped  her  into 
the  carriage,  when  the  stone  pressed  hard  against  his  hand, 
making  him  start  as  if  he  had  been  stung,  or,  rather,  as  if  that 


LOVE'S  COURSE  DOES  NOT  RUN  SMOOTH.        305 

ring  on  Alice's  finger  had  riveted  anew  the  fetters  he  had  been 
so  glad  to  break.  How  came  she  by  it,  and  what  did  it  mean  ? 
Surely  not  that  he  was  hers  again.  A  thousand  times  no,  when 
he  remembered  the  mighty  love  for  another  surging  through  his 
veins  and  making  him  so  wildly  happy.  He  was  honorably 
free.  Alice  had  made  him  so  herself,  and  even  his  father  could 
not  gainsay  that  or  think  the  Schuyler  reputation  for  honor 
compromised  in  the  least.  A  man  could  not  marry  a  woman 
who  would  not  marry  him,  who  had  told  him  so  with  angry 
words  and  biting  sarcasms.  Godfrey  was  in  high  spirits,  and 
his  manner  was  not  like  that  of  one  who  has  been  so  hear  to 
death.  He  could  even  joke  with  Robert  and  Emma,  and  would 
have  rallied  Alice  on  her  forlorn  and  bedraggled  appearance 
when  she  came  to  him  on  the  shore,  if  he  had  not  remembered 
the  scene  which  had  followed  that  coming,  when  the  ring  of 
betrothal  was  hurled  at  him  so  fiercely.  How  it  flashed  and 
shone  upon  her  hand,  which,  it  seemed  to  him,  was  continually 
thrust  upon  his  sight,  now  on  the  table,  now  on  the  back  of  the 
chair,  now  on  the  mantel, — everywhere  he  turned  his  eyes  there 
was  the  restless  hand  and  the  diamond  sparkling  on  it,  and 
seeming  to  say  to  him  that  his  freedom  was  not  so  sure.  At 
last,  when  he  could  bear  the  sight  no  longer,  he  sauntered  away 
to  his  father's  present  business-room,  where  he  sat  down  alone 
to  think  of  Gertie,  and  wonder  if  it  would  be  greatly  out  of 
place  for  him  to  go  and  inquire  for  her  that  night  instead  of 
waiting  till  morning. 

And  while  he  sat  thinking  there  was  a  knock  upon  the  door, 
and  Alice  came  in  with  a  grieved  look  in  her  face  and  tears  in 
her  eyes,  as  she  said  : 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me,  Godfrey  ?  You  have 
scarcely  spoken  to  me  since  the  accident." 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  you,  Allie  ?  "  Godfrey  asked,  not  un- 
kindly ;  and  then  Alice's  tears  fell  in  torrents  as  she  burst  out, 
impetuously  : 

"  Oh,  Godfrey,  say  you  do  not  mind  what  I  said  to  you  on 
the  river-bank.  I  was  angry,  jealous,  furious,  because  you  put 
me  away  to  save  another,  and  kissed  her  before  my  eyes,  and 


306      LOVES  COURSE  DOES  NOT  RUN  SMOOTH. 

called  her  your  darling.  I  think  I  must  have  been  crazed  to 
say  what  I  did,  and  throw  my  engagement  ring  away.  But  I 
have  it  again.  I  took  it  from  her  hand  and  put  it  back  on 
mine.  See,  it  is  here  ;  look,  Godfrey,  and  tell  me  it  is  just  as 
it  was  with  us." 

To  say  that  Godfrey  was  unmoved  by  this  appeal  would  be 
wrong,  for  though  he  had  never  loved  Alice,  he  did  not  dislike 
her,  and  would  gladly  have  spared  her  pain  could  he  have  done 
so  without  compromising  himself  again  :  but  he  could  not ;  he 
must  be  frank  with  her  now,  and  settle  their  relations  to  each 
other  at  once  and  forever,  and  he  said  to  her  :  "  But,  Allie,  it  is 
not  with  us  as  it  was,  and  it  never  can  be  again.  I  do  not  wish 
to  hurt  you  unnecessarily,  and  I  mean  to  be  as  gentle  and  kind 
as  I'd  want  a  great  brute  of  a  fellow  to  be  with  my  sister  undei 
similar  circumstances.  Allie,  I  have  never  supposed  that  you 
imagined  our  engagement  to  be  one  of  love.  We  liked  eac^ 
other,  and  were  taught  to  think  it  was  the  proper  thing  for  u 
to  marry.  I  did  not  love  you  very  much,  and  you  did  not  love 
me " 

"But,  Godfrey,  I  can  now,"  Alice  sobbed;  and  Godfrey  re- 
plied : 

"  Not  as  you  will  love  some  one  else  by  and  by  ;  while  I, — • 
Ailie,  I  believe  I  have  loved  Gertie  Westbrooke  since  she  was 
a  "child,  but  I  did  not  know  it  until  I  was  engaged  to  you,  and 
met  her  here  a  woman.  Then  it  came  upon  me,  and  for  a 
time  I  was  miserable.  But  I  meant  to  keep  my  word  to  you, 
and  should  have  done  so  if  you  had  not  yourself  set  me  free. 
I  do  not  ask  if  you  knew  what  you  were  saying.  I  accept  the 
fact,  and  cannot  go  back  on  it.  It  was  not  a  manly  act  to 
thrust  you  aside  in  the  water,  but  I  did  not  know  what  I  was 
doing,  for  Gertie  was  drowning  and  calling  on  me  to  save  her, 
and  1  had  no  thought  for  anything  else.  I  shall  ask  her  to  be 
my  wife,  and  if  she  refuses,  as  she  may,  I  shall  bide  my  time 
and  ask  her  again  ;  have  her  I  must ;  but,  Allie,  you  and  I  will  be 
friends  always,  just  the  same,  and  try  to  forget  the  past  summer, 
which  has  not  brought  much  happiness  to  either  of  us.  I  have 
been  constantly  fighting  against  my  love  for  another,  and  you 


GODFREY  AND    GERTIE.  307 

have  been  dissatisfied  at  not  receiving  from  me  all  you  had  a 
right  to  expect.  And  it  would  grow  worse,  all  the  time,  and  it 
is  better  to  end  it  now.  If  you  like  the  ring,  keep  it,  as  you 
would  a  gift  from  your  brother,  and  let  me  be  a  brother  to  you. 
I  carmot  be  anything  else.  Will  you,  Allie  ?  " 

Never  in  her  life  had  Alice  Creighton  prized  Godfrey  as  she 
did  then  when  she  knew  she  was  losing  him,  and  her  slight  form 
shook  with  sobs,  but  she  did  not  withdraw  the  hand  he  took  in 
his,  and  when  he  said  again  :  "  Shall  it  be  so,  Allie  !  Shall  we 
be  friends  ?  "  she  answered  :  "  Yes,  Godfrey,"  and  hurriedly  left 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

GODFREY  AND    GERTIE. 

[ERTIE'S  plunge  in  the  river  was  not  followed  by  any 
serious  consequences,  and  on  the  morning  succeeding 
the  accident,  although  she  was  very  pale  and  languid, 
she  complained  of  nothing  but  weakness  and  soreness  from  the 
rubbings  we  had  given  her,  and  she  came  to  breakfast  looking 
like  a  little  Quakeress  in  one  of  my  sober  wrappers,  with  only 
a  plain  linen  collar  around  her  neck,  and  her  hair  gathered  into 
a  net. 

But  nothing  could  make  Gertie  other  than  pretty,  and  when, 
just  after  breakfast,  a  step  was  heard  on  the  walk,  and  I  saw  by 
the  flush  on  her  cheek  that  she  knew  whose  step  it  was,  I  had 
never  seen  her  more  beautiful.  Godfrey  had  come  early,  and 
was  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  so  tender  and  loving  toward  Ger- 
tie that  I  watched  him  wonderingly,  for  I  did  not  know  what 
had  passed  between  him  and  Alice,  and  could  not  guess  how 
his  heart  was  beating  with  joy  at  his  freedom,  and  with  hope  for 
the  future.  He  had  brought  her  a  bouquet  of  flowers  and  some 
grapes  from  the  hot-house,  and  he  hovered  about  her  restlessly, 
and  called  her  a  little  nun  in  that  queer  garb  and  mob  cap,  as 
he  styled  the  net  which  he  playfully  pulled  from  her  head,  let- 
ting her  hair  fall  over  her  shoulders,  and  about  her  face. 


308  GODFREY  AND   GERTIE. 

"  There,  isn't  she  just  like  some  picture  set  in  a  golden 
frame  ?  "  he  said,  pushing  back  a  stray  tress  from  her  forehead, 
and  then  stepping  aside  to  let  me  see  and  admire,  too. 

How  Gertie's  blue  eyes  drooped  beneath  his  gaze,  and  how 
the  hot  blood  colored  her  cheeks,  until  she  looked  like  some 
guilty  thing  cowering  from  shame.  And  Gertie  did  feel  guilty, 
and  as  if  she  were  usurping  another's  rights.  She  knew  who  it 
was  that  saved  her  from  drowning,  and  she  knew  now  that  what 
she  had  thought  might  be  a  dream,  must  in  part  at  least  have 
been  a  reality  j  that  amid  the  horrid  blackness  which  was  so 
much  like  death,  Godfrey's  lips  had  kissed  hers  passionately, 
and  Godfrey's  voice  had  called  her  his  darling,  and  bade  her 
come  back  to  life  again  for  the  sake  of  the  love  he  bore  her. 
Yes,  Godfrey  had  done  all  that,  and  he  was  doing  it  over  again, 
so  far  as  he  dared,  with  me  there  in  the  way;  and  Gertie's  heart 
beat  with  joy,  and  then  was  heavy  as  lead  when  she  remem- 
bered Alice  Creighton,  and  her  promise  to  Colonel  Schuyler, 
which  she  must  keep,  if  the  heavens  fell. 

"I  am  coming  to  see  you  again  after  lunch,  but  meantime,  I 
will  send  you  some  of  your  things,  and  I  want  you  dressed  in 
white,  with  these  in  your  hair,"  Godfrey  said,  taking  from  the 
bouquet  a  few  forget-me-nots,  which  he  laid  in  her  lap.  "  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  something  which  may  astonish  you,  but  will 
nevertheless  make  you  glad,  I  hope,  so  aurevoir,  ma  chere." 

He  kissed  her,  and  when  she  drew  back  in  surprise,  he  wound 
his  arm  around  my  neck,  and  kissed  me,  saying  : 

"  You  see,  I  serve  you  both  alike,  the  old  maid  and  the  young 
one,  Adieu." 

He  was  off  like  the  wind,  and  we  could  hear  him  going  rapidly 
down  the  walk,  his  very  step  indicative  of  buoyant  life,  and  vigor, 
and  elasticity.  I  did  not  say  anything  to  Gertie,  but  left  her 
alone,  while  I  attended  to  some  household  duties.  When  I  re- 
turned to  her  after  the  lapse  of  an  hour,  I  found  her  asleep  on 
the  lounge,  with  a  troubled  expression  on  her  face  and  a  tear 
on  her  eyelashes.  The  carriage  from  the  hill  was  at  the  gate, 
Robert  Macpherson  and  Emma  were  coming  up  to  the  door, 
and  so  I  woke  her  and  made  her  ready  for  them.  Emma  was 


GODFREY  AND   GERTIE.  309 

paler  than  usual,  but  there  was  something  in  the  expressijn  of 
her  face  which  made  her  prettier  than  I  had  ever  seen  her  be- 
fore. She  was  quite  recovered,  and  she  was  in  almost  as  good 
spirits  as  Godfrey  had  been,  while  Robert's  eyes  followed  her 
with  an  expression  which  set  me  to  wondering  if  everything  had 
been  turned  topsy-turvy  by  that  accident  in  the  river.  I  had  a 
lily  I  wished  to  show  Robert,  who  was  something  of  a  florist, 
and  asked  him  into  the  garden. 

"  Yes,  that's  a  good  old  Ettie, — keep  him  as  long  as  you  can. 
I  want  to  see  Gertie  alone,"  Emma  whispered  to  me,  and  as 
soon  as  we  were  gone  she  went  up  to  Gertie  and  said  : 

"  Guess  now  what  has  happened  !  Robert  wants  me  to  be 
his  wife, — and  I  thought  all  the  while  it  was  Julia !  He  said  so 
last  night,  and  would  have  told  me  before  but  for  the  misfortune 
of  his  birth,  which  he  thought  I  might  not  like.  He  says  you 
know  about  it,  and  so  I  come  to  you  first  of  all.  Of  course  I'd 
rather  his  mother  had  been  a  lady  born,  and  I  do  not  quite  like 
the  thought  of  those  Lyles  and  Nesbits.  That's  the  Schuyler 
and  Rossiter  of  me,  while  the  woman  in  me  says  :  '  I  do  not 
care  ;  a  man  is  a  man  for  a'  that.' " 

Gertie  was  surprised,  for  she  too  had  supposed  it  was  Julia 
whom  Robert  preferred,  but  she  was  very  glad  to  find  herself 
mistaken,  and  heartily  echoed  Emma's  sentiment,  "A  man's  a 
man  for  a'  that." 

"  But  what  will  your  father  say  ?  "  she  asked,  and  Emma  re- 
plied : 

"  I  don't  know.  I  hope  Glenthorpe  will  outweigh  the  Lyles. 
Robert  will  tell  him  to-night.  There,  he  is  coming,  and  I  must 
go.  Good-by,  and  come  home  as  quick  as  you  can.  Tell 
Ettie,  if  you  like." 

She  kissed  us  both,  as  Godfrey  had  done,  while  Robert 
shook  hands  with  Gertie,  who  said : 

"  I  am  so  glad.  I  supposed  all  the  while  it  was  Julia,  or  I 
should  not  have  thought  it  could  make  any  difference.  God 
bless  you  both." 

We  did  not  expect  Godfrey  till  after  lunch,  but  he  surprised 
us  by  coming  in  just  as  we  were  taking  our  seats  at  the  dinner 


310  GODFREY  AND    GERTIE. 

table.  He  was  in  town,  he  said,  and  thought  it  a  waste  of  laboi 
to  go  home  and  then  back  again,  and  so  he  came  directly  to  our 
house,  and  helping  himself  to  a  chair,  he  drew  up  to  the  table 
beside  Gertie,  to  whom  he  devoted  himself  with  all  the  assidu- 
ity of  an  ardent  and  accepted  lover.  I  think  he  looked  upon 
himself  in  that  light,  and  was  not  in  the  least  prepared  for  the 
disappointment  awaiting  him. 

At  the  foot  of  our  garden,  overlooking  the  river,  is  an  old- 
fashioned  summer-house,  covered  with  a  luxuriant  grapevine, 
and  Godfrey  asked  Gertie  to  go  there  with  him  as  soon  as 
dinner  was  over.  His  love  was  of  the  impetuous  kind,  which 
cannot  wait  to  know  the  best  or  worst,  and  once  alone  with 
Gertie  and  free  from  observation,  save  as  the  bright-eyed  robin, 
whose  nest  was  among  the  vines,  looked  curiously  down  upon 
him,  he  burst  out  passionately  and  told  her  of  the  love  which 
had  been  growing  in  his  heart  since  the  day  he  found  her  on 
the  deck  and  stole  the  kiss  from  her  lips. 

"I  have  been  so  hungry  for  another,"  he  said,  "and  I  had 
it,  too,  yesterday,  when  you  lay  by  the  water's  edge,  and  I 
feared  you  were  dead.  Forgive  me,  darling,  if  I  took  unfair 
advantage  of  your  position.  I  could  not  help  it,  and  had  you 
died  I  would  have  claimed  you  as  mine  and  told  my  love  to  all 
the  world." 

"  Oh,  Godfrey,  hush ;  you  must  not  speak  to  me  like  this. 
Remember  Alice,"  Gertie  said  gaspingly,  and  Godfrey  replied  : 

"  I  do  remember  her,  and  it  is  of  her  I  must  first  tell  you. 
When  in  my  agony  lest  you  were  dead,  I  called  you  my  darling 
and  kissed  your  pallid  lips,  Alice  stood  beside  me  a  witness  to 
the  love  which  never  was  hers.  She  was  angry,  as  she  natu- 
rally would  be,  and  in  her  anger  made  me  free  from  my  engage- 
ment, and  said  she  hated  me  and  gave  me  back  the  ring  of  be- 
trothal. After  that  she  surely  has  no  claim  on  me,  and  if  she 
had  I  could  not  respect  it  now." 

Then  very  rapidly  he  went  over  with  the  entire  story  of  his 
affaire  du  coeur  with  Alice  from  the  time  they  both  were  chil- 
dren and  the  marriage  was  arranged  by  their  parents. 

"  I  like  Alice  as  a  friend,"  he  said  ;  "but  I  never  could  have 


GODFREY  AND    GERTIE.  JH 

loved  her  as  a  wife,  and  shall  not  try.  I  have  lasted  a  little  the 
sweets  of  loving  you,  and  nothing  will  satisfy  me  now  but  the 
full  fruition  of  that  love.  Gertie,  you  do  love  me  ;  tell  me  that 
you  do,  and  not  shrink  away  from  me  as  you  are  trying  to 
do." 

He  wound  his  arm  around  her,  and  drew  her  closely  to  him, 
vhile  with  a  shudder  she  cried  : 

"  Oh,  Godfrey,  don't  ask  me  ;  take  the  words  back,  please, 
and  do  not  torture  me  so  cruelly.  I  cannot  be  your  wife.  I 
cannot.  It  must  never  be, — never.  I  have  given  my  solemn 
promise,  and  I  must  keep  it." 

Then  he  released  her,  and  springing  to  his  feet,  exclaimed  : 

"  Your  promise,  Gertie  !  Your  promise  !  What  do  you 
mean  ?  Has  any  other  man  dared  talk  to  you  of  love  ?  Has 
Tom  Barton " 

She  saw  that  he  misunderstood  her,  and  said  to  him  : 

"  No,  Godfrey,  it  is  not  that.  I  am  not  promised  in  that  way, 
but  for  gratitude,  for  honor.  Your  father  asked  it  of  me." 

"  My  father  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Godfrey  said,  resum- 
ing his  seat  beside  her,  and  growing  very  indignant  and  very 
white  about  the  lips  when  Gertie  told  him  what  she  meant,  and 
that  she  would  not  break  her  vow. 

Nothing  he  could  say  to  her  moved  her  in  the  least.  She 
had  promised  and  she  should  keep  her  word,  and  he  must  go 
back  to  Alice,  who  would  forgive  him. 

"  I  shall  never  go  back  to  her.  We  settled  that  last  night," 
he  said,  and  then  added,  quickly :  "  Gertie,  I  am  not  one  who 
gives  up  easily,  and  I  shall  not  give  you  up.  My  father  himself 
shall  remove  the  bar ;  only  tell  me,  Gertie,  truly,  do  you  love 
we,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  promise,  would  you  be  my  wife  ?  " 

Oh,  what  a  depth  of  love  and  tenderness  there  was  in  the 
streaming  eyes  lifted  to  Godfrey's  face,  as  Gertie  answered  him 
so  sadly : 

"  I  am  afraid  I  would." 

"  Then  you  shall  be,"  Godfrey  said.  "  I  will  see  my  father, 
this  very  night  and  tell  him  the  whole  story,  and  get  him  to  re- 
move the  interdict,  and  whe  1 1  have  his  consent  I  shall  come 


312  GODFREY  AND   GERTIE. 

straight  here  to  you.  Don't  go  home  to-day,  Gertie.  Stay 
with  Ettie  another  night,  and  wait  here  for  me  till  the  moon  is 
up,  and  then  if  I  do  not  come  you  may  know  father  has 
goaded  me  to  such  lengths  that  in  my  desperation  I  have  thrown 
myself  into  the  river ! " 

He  spoke  lightly,  and  tried  to  laugh,  but  there  was  a  load  on 
his  heart,  a  feeling  that  the  interview  with  his  father  might  be  a 
stormy  one,  but  he  was  ready  to  encounter  any  difficulty  for 
Gertie's  sake,  and  esteemed  no  trial  too  great  if  in  the  end  it 
brought  her  to  his  arms.  It  was  useless,  he  knew,  to  think  of 
winning  her  so  long  as  that  promise  to  his  father  stood  in  the 
way,  and  so  that  was  the  barrier  to  be  broken  down  ;  but  in 
his  passion  and  blindness  he  had  little  fear  that  he  should  fail. 
Gertie  was  the  same  as  his,  and  he  told  her  so,  and  stooped  to 
kiss  her  lips  at  parting.  But  she  drew  back  from  him,  and  said  : 

"  No,  Godfrey,  I  am  not  your  promised  wife,  and  never  shall 
be.  Your  father  will  not  consent." 

She  knew  Colonel  Schuyler  better  than  Godfrey  did,  and  her 
heart  was  very  heavy,  as  she  watched  him  going  from  her,  his 
face  beaming  with  hope  as  he  looked  back  to  say : 

"  Wait  for  me  here,  Gertie,  when  the  moon  comes  over  the 
hills." 

I  saw  that  something  had  agitated  her  when  she  returned  to 
the  house,  and  laying  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  said,  "  Tell  me 
about  it  if  you  like ; "  and  then  she  told  me  all,  and  how  hope- 
less it  was  for  Godfrey  to  think  his  father  would  consent  to  his 
marriage  with  a  poor  girl  like  her.  And  though  I  felt  that  she 
spoke  truly,  I  tried  to  encourage  her,  telling  her  that  Godfrey 
was  not  one  to  stop  at  any  obstacle  which  could  be  surmounted. 

Later  in  the  day  Edith  drove  round  in  her  phaeton  to  take 
Gertie  home,  but  I  begged  to  keep  her  another  night,  while 
Gertie,  too,  expressed  a  desire  to  stay,  and  so  Edith  went  back 
without  her,  never  suspecting  the  reason  which  Gertie  had  for 
staying  with  me  that  night. 


ROBERT  MACPHERSON  AND   COL.    SCHUYLER.    313 
CHAPTER  XLV. 

ROBERT  MACPHERSON  AND  COL.  SCHUYLER. 

]ROM  the  moment  Robert  bore  Emma  in  his  arms  to 
the  shore,  and  kissed  her,  as  he  set  her  safe  upon  the 
land,  he  knew  he  stood  committed,  and  that  silence 
was  no  longer  possible.  And  so  he  made  his  confession  to  her, 
and  told  her  of  his  love,  and  asked  if  she  would  be  his  wife, 
and  the  mistress  of  Glenthorpe.  Had  he  been  poor,  with  no 
Glenthorpe,  Emma  might  have  hesitated,  for  in  her  way  she  was 
very  proud,  and  good  blood  was  her  weakness ;  but  Robert  was  not 
poor,  and  she  was  very  much  in  love  with  him,  and  said  she 
would  be  his  if  her  father  was  willing,  and  she  thought  he  would 
be,  for  he  had  never  expected  as  much  for  her  as  he  did  for  Julia, 
whose  beauty  ought  to  command  a  brilliant  match. 

Robert  was  not  one  to  delay  any  duty  long,  especially  if  it 
were  a  disagreeable  one,  and  while  Godfrey  was  breathing  words 
of  passionate  love  into  Gertie's  ear,  he  was  closeted  with  Col. 
Schuyler  and  with  Edith  too.  He  had  asked  her  to  be  present, 
from  a  feeling  that  he  should  find  in  her  a  powerful  ally.  But 
he  had  no  conception  of  the  real  nature  of  her  feelings  when  he 
told  who  he  was,  and  said  :  "  The  man  you  buried  in  your  yard, 
and  who  saved  Godfrey's  life,  was  my  own  uncle,  the  brother 
of  my  mother." 

He  stopped  there  a  moment,  waiting  for  the  first  shock  to 
pass  away,  and  Edith  felt  the  iron  fingers  touch  her  throat 
slightly,  while  she  was  conscious  of  an  impulse  to  grasp  the 
young  man's  hand  and  claim  him  for  her  own  kindred.  But 
such  confession  on  her  part  must  not  be  made  now.  It  was 
too  late  for  that,  and  she  did  not  speak,  but  listened  breath- 
lessly while  Robert  confessed  next  his  love  for  the  colonel's 
daughter,  and  asked  if  he  might  have  her.  Colonel  Schuy- 
ler thought  of  Jennie  Nesbit  and  that  cottage  in  Alnwick,  and 
all  his  family  pride  rose  within  him  as  he  said,  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitancy  : 
14 


3H    ROBERT  MACPHERSON  AND   COL.   SCHUYLER. 

"  I  am.  surprised  that  after  the  fraud  practised  upon  us  so 
long,  you  should  presume  to  ask  for  my  daughter,  especially 
when  you  consider  the  difference  between  our  families.  No,  I 
cannot  give  her  to  you." 

This  was  the  colonel's  reply,  while  Edith,  who  thought  only 
of  the  sweet-faced,  white-haired  old  lady  knitting  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  of  the  boy-lover  coming  to  her  through  the  twilight 
in  the  years  agone,  rose,  and  going  to  her  husband's  side  said 
to  him  : 

"Yes,  Howard,  you  will  give,  her  to  him  and  forgive  him  for 
the  foolish  pride  which  has  so  long  kept  him  silent  with  regard 
to  his  mother's  family." 

The  colonel  was  disturbed,  and  answered  a  little  impatiently  : 
"It's  the  family  I  object  to,  as  well  as  the  deception." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  and  Edith's  white  fingers  threaded  his  hair 
caressingly.  "  I  can  imagine  that ;  but,  Howard,  consider  the 
difference  between  Robert  and  those  whom  we  saw  in  Alnwick, 
and  remember  there  is  a  nobility  from  within  which  should 
level  all  outward  distinctions.  You  chose  me  without  money, 
family,  or  name,  and  Robert  has  all  these.  The  Macphersons 
are  among  the  first  in  Scotland,  and  you  will  not  condemn  him 
for  the  accident  of  his  mother's  birth.  You  can  afford  to  be 
generous.  Let  me  go  for  Emma  now,  and  see  you  make  her 
happy  by  giving  her  to  the  man  she  loves." 

She  had  caressed  him  all  the  time,  and  her  caresses  did  quite 
as  much  toward  mollifying  him  as  her  arguments.  She  saw  the 
wavering  of  his  purpose  in  his  eyes,  and,  as  he  did  not  forbid 
her,  she  went  at  once  for  Emma,  whom  she  led  into  the  room, 
and  whose  hand  she  placed  in  Robert's,  as  she  said  : 

"  Now,  husband,  give  them  your  blessing,  and  say  that  you 
are  willing." 

"  I  cannot  say  I  am  willing,"  the  colonel  answered,  in  a  husky 
voice  :  "  but  we  sometimes  assent  to  what  we  do  not  like,  and 
if  Emma  wants  this  young  man,  and  thinks  she  can  be  happy 
with  him  away  from  all  her  family,  I  will  not  oppose  her, — only 
let  everything  be  done  very  quietly  and  unostentatiously.  I 
could  not  endure  a  parade." 


GODFREY  AND  HIS  FATHER.  31$ 

And  thus  he  gave  his  consent,  which  hurt  almost  as  much  as 
it  pleased,  though  Emma  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
thanked  him  for  having  made  her  so  happy ;  but  Robert  merely 
bowed  his  thanks,  and,  with  a  manner  as  lofty  and  haughty  as 
that  of  any  Schuyler,  left  the  room.  Emma  soon  joined  him, 
and  with  her  he  forgot  in  part  the  little  sting,  and  thought  only 
of  the  future,  when  she  would  be  his  wife  and  the  mistress  of 
Glenthorpe,  a  place  finer  even  than  Schuyler  Hill,  with  a  long 
line  of  noble  ancestry,  and  a  coat-of  arms  to  give  importance 
to  it. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

GODFREY  AND  HIS  FATHER. 

|HE  dinner  at  Schuyler  Hill  that  day  was  a  rather  dull 
affair  compared  with  what  the  dinners  usually  were  ; 
for  Alice  and  Julia  kept  their  rooms  with  the  headache, 
while  immediately  after  his  interview  with  Robert,  the  colonel 
had  gone  up  the  river  a  few  miles  on  some  business,  which  he 
told  Edith  might  detain  him  past  the  dinner  hour,  and  if  so,  she 
was  not  to  wait.  As  he  did  not  return,  they  sat  down  without 
him,  but  only  Godfrey  was  inclined  to  talk.  He  had  heard 
Robert's  story  from  Robert  himself,  and  had  indorsed  him 
heartily,  and  teasingly  congratulated  Emma  for  having  done  so 
much  better  than  he  ever  thought  she  could  do  with  her  little 
ankles  and  milk-and-water  face. 

It  was  anything  but  milk-and-water  now,  and,  with  the  blushes 
burning  so  constantly  on  her  cheeks,  and  the  new  light  in  her 
eyes,  she  was  very  pretty  to  look  at,  as  she  sat  at  the  dinner- 
table,  and  Godfrey  told  her  so,  and  said  it  was  a  pity  she  had 
not  been  engaged  before,  it  was  so  great  an  improvement  to 
her,  and  all  the  time  he  joked  and  laughed  he  was  thinking  of 
his  father,  and  wondering  when  he  would  be  home. 

Six,  seven,  eight,  and  nine,  and  still  he  had  not  come,  and  the 
moon  would  be  up  at  ten,  and  Gertie  waiting  for  him,  and  God- 
frey paced  up  and  down  the  long  piazza,  restless  as  a  caged  lion, 


316  GODFREY  AND  HIS  FATHER. 

until  the  sound  of  horse's  feet  was  heard,  and  the  colonel  came 
galloping  up  to  the  side  door,  where  Godfrey  met  him  before 
he  had  time  to  dismount. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  I  have  waited  for  you  more  than  three 
hours.  I  must  speak  with  you  at  once.  Come  in  here,  please." 

And  he  led  the  way  to  the  same  room  where  Robert  had  de- 
clared his  love  for  Emma,  and  where  Gertie  had  given  her 
promise  not  to  listen  to  Godfrey  without  his  father's  consent. 

And  Godfrey  was  there  to  ask  that  consent,  and  he  plunged 
at  once  into  the  mattei,  and  told  his  story  so  rapidly  and 
emphatically  that  his  father  had  no  chance  to  utter  a  syllable, 
even  had  he  wished  to  do  so,  but  sat  motionless  and  con- 
founded while  Godfrey  poured  out  his  burning  words,  and  de- 
claring his  love  for  Gertie,  asked  that  his  father  should  remove 
the  ban,  and  make  Gertie  free  to  be  his  wife.  Godfrey  could 
not  have  chosen  a  more  inopportune  time  for  the  success  of  his 
suit.  The  colonel  had  borne  a  great  deal  that  day.  His  pride 
had  been  sorely  wounded  in  giving  his  daughter  to  a  son  of  the 
Lyles,  and  now  came  Godfrey,  telling  him  cf  his  broken  engage- 
ment with  Alice,  and  asking  his  consent  to  a  marriage  with 
Gertie  Westbrooke,  a  girl  who,  for  aught  he  knew,  was  con- 
nected with  a  lower  family  even  than  the  Lyles,  and  who  at 
least  had  no  money  to  bring  him.  This  really  was  the  sorest 
point  with  Colonel  Schuyler.  His  business  that  afternoon  had 
been  with  the  agent  of  a  firm  which  owed  him  a  large  sum  of 
money,  and  which  had  declared  its  inability  to  pay,  so  that  he 
had  returned  a  poorer  man  by  fifty  thousand  dollars  than  he  had 
supposed  himself  to  be.  And  this  was  from  the  portion  he  had 
set  apart  for  Godfrey. 

Just  after  the  birth  of  little  Arthur,  the  colonel  had  made  his 
will,  dividing  his  property  about  equally,  as  lie  thought,  be- 
tween his  wife  and  children,  and  designating  the  bonds,  or 
lands,  or  moneys  each  should  have.  Strangely  enough,  all  the 
losses  he  had  met  with  since  had  been  from  Godfrey's  share. 
For  this,  however,  the  colonel  had  consoled  himself  with  the 
fact  that  Alice  Creighton's  fortune  would  make  amends  for  all, 
and  now  he  was  told  that  Alice  was  set  aside,  and  his  son 


GODFREY  AND  HIS  FATHER.  317 

would  wed  with  poverty.  He  was  confounded,  and  indignant, 
and  angry,  and  said  many  bitter  things,  and  utterly  refused  to 
release  Gertie  from  her  promise. 

"  Tell  her  from  me,"  he  said,  "  that  I  will  hold  her  to  it  as 
long  as  I  live,  and  she  must  beware  how  she  breaks  her  word, 
pledged  so  solemnly." 

And  that  was  all  the  satisfaction  Godfrey  got.  His  father 
would  not  listen  to  his  love  for  Gertie,  and  insisted  upon  his  re- 
turning to  his  allegiance  to  Alice  : 

"  Never,  while  I  have  my  senses.  I  do  not  dislike  Allie  as  a 
friend,  but  I  shall  never  make  her  my  wife.  It  is  Gertie,  or  no- 
body," Godfrey  said. 

And  so  the  interview  which  had  lasted  a  long  time  ended,  and 
just  as  the  clock  was  striking  half-past  ten  a  white-faced  young 
man,  with  lips  firmly  compressed,  and  a  look  of  determination 
in  his  eyes,  went  rapidly  down  the  avenue,  leaving  behind  a 
whiter- faced  man,  who  had  said  to  him  : 

"  If  Gertie  breaks  her  word  and  marries  you,  remember  it 
will  be  disinheritance." 

Now  to  one  as  madly  in  love  as  Godfrey,  disinheritance  did 
not  seem  so  very  dreadful.  It  was  not  half  as  bad  as  losing 
Gertie,  and  as  he  walked  away  from  the  Hill  he  thought  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  work  for  Gertie,  and  deny  himself,  if 
need  be,  that  she  might  live  in  comfort.  There  was  his  cot- 
tage ;  disinheritance  could  not  take  that  from  him,  for  it  was 
his  own,  and  he  had  the  deed.  They  could  live  there  for  awhile 
on  almost  notl-'.ij,  and  should  get  along  somehow. 

It  was  the  same  old  story,  always  new,  of  young  people  with 
more  love  in  their  hearts  than  money  in  their  purses.  "  They 
would  get  along  somehow;"  and  Godfrey's  spirits  were  very 
light,  and  his  cheery  whistle  sounded  through  the  still  night  air 
as  he  drew  near  the  summer-house,  where  Gertie  was  to  wait 
for  him. 


3i8  WAITING. 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 

WAITING. 

|ERTIE  had  been  very  restless  the  entire  day,  and 
when  at  last  the  sun  went  down,  and  there  wanted 
but  a  few  hours  of  the  time  when  Godfrey  was  to  re- 
turn, her  cheeks  were  burning  with  fever,  and  she  was  far  more 
fit  for  bed  than  for  the  summer-house,  where  the  fog  from  the 
river  was  making  itself  felt,  and  the  night  damp  was  falling. 
But  I  could  not  persuade  her.  Godfrey  had  said:  "Wait 
for  me  here  when  the  moon  conies  over  the  hills,"  and  she 
would  do  it  if  a  hundred  fevers  had  been  burning  in  her  veins. 
She  had  no  hope,  she  said,  that  Colonel  Schuyler  would  relent, 
and  if  he  did  not  she  must  keep  her  vow,  though  her  heart 
broke  in  doing  it.  Still  I  think  there  was  a  shadowy  hope, 
which  buoyed  her  up  during  the  first  half  hour  of  waiting.  She 
had  expected  him  to  be  with  her  before  the  moon  came  over 
the  hill,  and  when  the  first  silvery  light  fell  on  the  opposite 
shore,  and  the  woods  began  to  grow  less  dark  and  sombre,  she 
grew  restless  and  nervous,  and  complained  of  being  cold,  while 
}he  bright  flush  faded  from  her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  left  them 
pale  as  marble.  The  whole  river  now  was  flecked  with  patches 
of  moonlight,  and  the  summer-house,  with  the  shrubbery  around 
it,  began  to  stand  out  in  shadows,  as  the  moon  c.  rpt  higher  and 
higher  up  the  eastern  horizon.  And  still  he  did  not  come,  and 
Gertie's  teeth  were  chattering  and  her  hair  was  wet  with  dew, 
and  I  was  about  to  insist  upon  her  going  in,  when  through  the 
stillness  a  footstep  sounded, — a  rapid,  elastic  footstep, — and  we 
heard  next  a  merry  whistle  on  the  road  not  far  away.  Godfrey 
was  coming  ;  he  had  been  successful,  or  he  would  never  have 
come  so  blithely.  So  Gertie  thought, — so  I  believed,  and  I 
stole  away  to  the  house,  leaving  the  lovers  alone  in  their  inter- 
view, which  lasted  more  than  an  hour,  and  at  its  close  left  the 
two  young  hearts  which  loved  each  other  so  fondly,  sore  and 


WAITING.  319 

full  of  pain.  For  Gertie  would  not  break  her  word  so  solemnly 
pledged. 

"  I  love  you  so  much,"  she  said,  when  he  had  exhausted 
every  argument  in  his  power  to  win  her  to  his  opinion,  "and  I 
would  so  gladly  be  poor  with  you,  and  work  so  hard  for  you  if 
I  could  do  it  without  sin ;  but  I  cannot ;  I  promised  I  would 
not  marry  you  without  your  father's  consent,  and  I  must  keep 
my  word.  But  I  did  not  promise  not  to  love  you,  and  I  can 
do  that  and  will,  forever  and  ever.  And  now  good-by.  Don't 
go  to  the  house  with  me.  Don't  kiss  me,"  she  cried,  as  he 
made  a  motion  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms.  "  You  must  not  do 
that ;  and,  Godfrey,  you  say  you  shall  leave  Hampstead  to- 
morrow. Don't  part  from  your  father  in  anger.  Don't  for  my 
sake  ;  and,  Godfrey — "  her  voice  shook  a  little  here — "and — 
and — try  to  love  Alice, — do, — and  be  happy  with  her, — and — 
never  mind  about  me." 

She  broke  from  him  then,  and  came  rapidly  to  the  house 
where  I  received  her,  and  removing  the  shawls,  wet  with  the 
heavy  dew,  rubbed  and  chafed  her  cold  hands  and  feet  and  got 
her  to  bed  as  soon  as  I  could,  while  in  my  heart  was  a  dire 
foreboding  of  what  might  follow  this  excitement  and  long  ex- 
posure to  the  night  air,  in  her  already  weakened  condition. 
Nor  were  my  forebodings  groundless,  and  Godfrey  did  not  leave 
home  the  following  day  as  he  meant  to  do.  With  his  travelling 
bag  and  shawl  he  came  past  our  house  on  his  way  to  the  train 
and  stopped  at  the  door  a  moment  to  ask  for  Gertie,  but 
when  I  led  him  to  her  room  where  she  lay  burning  with  fever 
and  talking  of  him  and  his  father,  and  the  little  hot  berth  in  the 
steamer  where  she  had  been  so  sick;  he  put  his  satchel  and 
shawl  in  the  corner,  and  drawing  his  chair  near  her  bedside  sat 
there  all  day  long,  while  the  doctor  came  in  and  out  and  said  it 
was  the  result  of  exposure  that  day  on  the  river,  and  that  with 
ordinary  care  he  apprehended  no  danger.  Edith,  too,  came 
down  with  Emma,  whom  I  hardly  knew  with  the  new  happiness 
shining  in  her  face  and  making  her  so  sweet  and  gentle.  Both 
were  very  anxious  about  Gertie,  and  the  latter  remained  all 
night,  and  watched  with  Godfrey,  by  the  sick  girl,  who  paid  no 


320  GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE. 

heed  to  either  of  them,  but  kept  asking  for  Col.  Schuyler.     And 
the  next  day  he  came  and  stood  by  her,  and  taking  her  hot 
hands  in  his  asked  her  what  she  wanted. 
!     She  seemed  to  know  him,  and  replied  : 

"  To  tell  you  that  I  have  not  told  a  lie.  I've  kept  my  prom- 
ise, though  it  broke  my  heart  to  do  it,  but  I  could  not  tell  a 
lie  even  for  the  love  I  have  for  Godfrey." 

I  do  not  know  what  he  said  to  her,  but  he  was  very  pale  when 
he  came  from  the  sick-room,  and  he  spoke  pleasantly  to  God- 
frey, and  made  no  objections  to  his  being  there.  But  he  did 
not  come  again  or  see  his  son,  who  stayed  until  Gertie  was  out 
of  danger.  Then  he  asked  to  see  her  for  just  one  moment,  but 
what  occurred  at  the  interview  I  cannot  say.  I  only  know  that 
at  its  close  Godfrey's  voice  was  husky  and  thick  as  he  wrung  my 
hand,  and  said  : 

"  Farewell,  Ettie  ;  be  good  to  her.  I  don't  know  if  I'll  ever 
come  home  again." 

Then  he  went  away,  and  I  found  Gertie  in  a  kind  of  faint, 
from  which  she  did  not  recover  until  long  after  I  heard  the 
whistle  of  the  train  which  took  Godfrey  to  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

GIVING    IN    MARRIAGE. 

was  soon  known  in  Hampstead,  not  who  Robert  Mac- 
pherson  was,  but  that  he  was  to  marry  Emma  Schuy- 
ler, instead  of  the  haughty  Julia,  to  whom  every  one 
had  given  him.  Julia  was  not  a  favorite  in  town,  and  when  it 
was  rumored  that  she  was  bitterly  disappointed,  and  that  the 
headache  which  had  confined  her  to  her  room  for  several  days 
was  owing  more  to  her  disappointment  than  to  cold  taken  in  the 
river,  I  think  the  lower  class  rejoiced  to  know  that  even  her 
proud  heart  could  ache  and  her  scornful  eyes  weep  from  humilia- 
tion. Of  Alice's  grief  nothing  was  known  outside  the  house  on 
the  Hill,  though  many  comments  were  made  concerning  God- 


GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE.  321 

frey's  stay  with  Gertie  when  she  was  so  sick,  and  his  devotion 
to  her  was  imputed  to  a  feeling  stronger  than  friendship  for  the 
beautiful  girl  so  popular  with  everybody.  But  nobody  dreamed 
of  the  broken  engagement  which  the  colonel  tried  to  mend, 
bidding  Alice  wear  the  ring  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  en- 
couraging her  to  believe  that  all  would  yet  be  well  between  her- 
self and  Godfrey.  The  colonel  had  faith  in  Gertie  and  knew 
she  would  keep  her  word,  and  hoped  and  believed  that  what  he 
had  desired  so  long  would  ultimately  come  to  pass. 

Emma's  wedding  was  to  be  a  very  quiet  morning  affair  at  the 
church,  with  a  breakfast  afterward  at  the  house,  and  then  the 
married  pair  were  to  go  at  once  to  New  York  and  embark  the 
following  day  for  England. 

By  mere  accident  Julia  had  heard  something  of  Robert's  ante- 
cedents, and  as  she  insisted  upon  knowing  the  whole,  Emma 
had  told  her  who  Robert  was,  and  the  knowledge  had  gone  far 
toward  reconciling  the  proud  girl  to  her  loss. 

Emma  was  welcome  to  a  nephew  of  the  Lyles,  she  said,  with 
a  haughty  toss  of  her  head,  and  when  Tom  Barton,  who  was 
still  keeping  sober  for  Gertie's  sake,  was  suggested  to  her  as 
groomsman  she  did  not  object,  and  received  him  graciously  when 
he  came  round  to  talk  the  matter  over.  Alice  was  to  be  the 
other  bridesmaid,  and  it  was  confidently  expected  that  Godfrey 
would  stand  with  her.  But  this  he  refused  to  do,  saying  in  his 
letter  to  his  father  that  he  should  not  be  present  at  the  ceremony. 
His  coming  home  could  only  bring  pain  to  himself  and  others, 
and  he  chose  to  remain  in  New  York,  where  he  should  see 
Emma  before  she  sailed  and  make  it  right  with  her.  When  Alice 
heard  this  she  took  the  ring  from  her  finger  a  second  time, 
and  inclosing  it  in  a  blank  sheet  of  paper  sent  it  back  to  God- 
frey, with  the  feeling  that  all  was  really  over  between  them,  and 
that  he  never  would  be  hers  even  if  he  did  not  marry  Gertie. 
How  she  hated  her  rival,  and  how  glad  she  was  to  know  that 
she  would  not  be  present  at  the  wedding. 

"  If  she  comes  here  I  certainly  shall  leave,  for  the  same  roof 
cannot  cover  us  both  for  a  single  hour,  she  said. 

But  she  had  nothing  to  fear  from  Gertie,  who  was  neither 
14* 


322  GIVING  IN  MARRIAGE. 

able  nor  desirous  of  attending  the  wedding.  She  saw  both  Rob- 
ert and  Emma  frequently,  and  through  the  former  was  carrying 
out  the  plan  she  had  formed  when  he  first  told  her  who  he  was, 
and  gave  her  the  cairngorms  from  his  grandmother.  Then  she 
had  thought :  "  If  Julia  marries  Robert  I  will  divide  the  stones 
with  her,  for  no  one  can  have  a  better  right  to  them  than  Rob- 
ert's wife ; "  and  now  that  it  was  Emma  instead  of  Julia,  she 
was  far  better  satisfied,  and  sent  a  part  of  the  stones  to  New 
York,  where  they  were  made  into  bracelets,  ear-rings  and  pin  as 
her  present  to  the  bride. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  linger  long  over  that  wedding,  which 
came  off  on  one  bright  morning  in  September,  and  at  which  no 
one  was  present  save  a  few  intimate  friends.  Julia,  as  brides- 
maid, was  very  beautiful,  we  heard,  and  at  the  breakfast  coquetted 
a  good  deal  with  Tom,  who,  after  all  was  over,  and  the  bridal 
pair  gone,  came  and  told  us  all  about  it,  and  said  Alice  nearly 
took  his  head  off  when  he  joked  her  about  Godfrey's  absence. 

"  And  if  you  believe  me,  she  is  kind  of  sweet  on  the  rector," 
he  said ;  "  and  now  that  everything  seems  to  be  topsy-turvy 
and  upside  down,  I  would  not  be  surprised  if  she  became  our 
rectoress  some  day.  Wouldn't  she  be  a  jolly  one  though,  with 
all  her  cranks  and  furbelows." 

She  had  gone  to  New  York  with  the  bridal  party,  and  Julia 
had  gone,  too,  so  that  they  were  very  lonely  at  Schuyler  Hill, 
and  within  a  day  or  two  Edith  came  for  Gertie  to  go  home. 

"  Col.  Schuyler  wishes  it ;  he  misses  you,  I  think,  almost  as 
much  as  I  do,"  Edith  said,  and  that  availed  to  take  Gertie  back 
more  than  anything  else,  I  think. 

It  was  the  colonel  himself  who  met  her  at  the  door,  and  led 
her  into  the  house,  and  told  her  she  was  welcome  home,  and  lie 
was  glad  to  see  her.  And  he  did  seem  happier  for  having  her 
again,  and  as  it  was  through  him  she  had  suffered  so  much,  he  tried 
by  every  means  in  his  power  to  make  amends,  and  withheld 
from  her  nothing  save  the  one  thing  which  alone  could  bring 
the  color  back  to  her  face,  and  ease  the  heavy  pain  at  her  heart. 
Godfrey  was  studying  very  hard  at  his  profession,  and  wrote 
occasionally  to  his  father  stiff,  formal  letters,  pertaining  wholly 


MRS.    DOCTOR  BARRETT.  323 

to  his  health  or  business,  and  not  at  all  like  the  funny,  rollicky 
epistles  he  had  been  wont  to  dash  off  when  he  was  not  as  sad 
and  spiritless  as  now.  Once  he  wrote  to  Gertie,  but  she  did  not 
answer  the  letter,  though  she  asked  Edith  to  write  and  say  she 
had  received  it,  and  that  he  must  not  write  again.  Those  Oc- 
tober days  were  very  dreary  ones  to  Gertie,  and  she  was  glad 
when  at  last  there  came  a  diversion  to  her  thoughts,  in  the  shape 
of  a  guest  who  appeared  one  day  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
at  Schuyler  Hill,  and  of  whom  I  will  speak  in  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

MRS.    DOCTOR    BARRETT. 

jHE  guest  was  Mrs.  Dr.  Barrett,  and  she  came  one 
dreary  day  in  November,  unannounced  and  unex- 
pected, her  white  puffs  of  hair  just  as  smooth  as  ever, 
her  mourning  just  as  deep  and  her  black  eyes  just  as  restless 
and  eager  as  she  walked  up  the  avenue  and  looked  curiously 
about  her.  She  had  accidentally  stumbled  upon  Godfrey  in 
New  York  while  walking  down  Broadway,  and  recognizing  him 
at  once  had  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and  to  his  utter  amazement, 
claimed  him  as  her  grandson  by  marriage.  It  was  not  in  God- 
frey s  nature  to  be  other  than  polite  to  any  woman,  and  so 
adroitly  did  Mrs.  Barrett  manage,  that  when  at  last  he  left  her 
seated  in  the  car  which  was  to  take  her  to  Hampstead,  he 
found  himself  out  of  pocket  just  ten  dollars,  which  had  gone  for 
carriage  hire,  and  lunch  and  stage  fare,  and  ticket  to  Hamp- 
stead. 

"But  then  a  fellow  must  do  something  for  his  stcp-grand- 
mother-in-law"  he  said  to  Tom  Barton,  who  chanced  to  be  in 
the  city,  and  to  whom  he  related  his  experience,  adding  that  he 
hardly  thought  the  worthy  woman  was  expected  at  Schuyler 
Hill. 

Nor  was  she.  But  Mrs.  Barrett  was  not  one  who  cared  par- 
ticularly for  the  feelings  of  others.  Regularly  twice  a  year 


324  MRS.  DOCTOR  BARRETT. 

since  her  daughter's  marriage  she  had  received  money  from 
Colonel  Schuyler,  and  never  in  her  life  had  she  been  more 
comfortable  and  free  ;  but  this  did  not  satisfy  her  so  long  as  she 
knew  that  across  the  sea  was  a  luxurious  home,  which  she  felt 
she  had  a  right  to  enjoy.  It  was  more  than  six  years  now  since 
her  daughter's  marriage,  and  in  all  that  time  there  had  been  no 
wish  expressed  to  see  her,  no  invitation  for  her  to  come,  and 
she  was  tired  of  waiting  and  weary  of  her  present  idle  life,  while 
to  do  her  justice  there  was  in  her  heart  a  genuine  desire  to  see 
her  child's  face  once  more,  and  hear  the  sound  of  her  voice. 
So,  when  her  money  came  as  usual  in  October,  with  a  letter 
from  Edith,  who  told  of  Emma's  marriage,  and  said  that  Julia 
was  also  gone,  and  she  was  alone  with  her  husband,  Arthur  and 
Gertie,  Mrs.  Barrett's  decision  was  made,  and  giving  up  her 
pleasant  rooms  which  she  had  occupied  so  long,  she  started  for 
America,  and  arrived  at  Hampstead  on  a  November  day  when 
the  wind  sighed  drearily  through  the  trees  and  rustled  the  dead 
leaves  at  her  feet  as  she  passed  slowly  up  the  avenue  leading 
to  Schuyler  Hill.  She  had  walked  from  the  station,  and  taking 
the  road  which  led  past  her  old  home,  had  paused  a  moment 
by  the  gate,  looking  at  the  pretty  cottage  and  thinking  of  all 
that  had  happened  since  the  day  Abelard  was  carried  through 
the  gate  up  to  the  little  cemetery  she  could  see  in  the  distance. 

Edith  was  out  that  afternoon,  and  only  Gertie  was  at  home 
when  Mrs.  Barrett  rang  and  asked  first  for  Mrs.  Schuyler  and 
then  for  Miss  Westbrooke. 

"  An  old  lady  in  black,  with  puffs  of  white  hair,"  the  servant 
said  to  Gertie,  who,  without  a  thought  as  to  who  it  could  be, 
went  down  to  meet  the  stranger. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Barrett,"  she  cried,  when  she  caught  sight  of  the 
well-remembered  features.  "  I  did  not  dream  of  seeing  you. 
When  did  you  come  ?  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  and  so  will  Mrs. 
Schuyler  be.  I  wish  she  were  here." 

There  was  no  question  as  to  Gertie's  joy,  and  Mrs.  Barrett 
wished  she  was  as  sure  of  as  hearty  a  welcome  from  her  own 
daughter  as  she  received  from  this  stranger,  who  was  removing 
her  bonnet  and  shawl  and  talking  to  her  so  fast. 


'MRS.    DOCTOR  BARRETT.  325 

"  You  must  be  very  tired,  and  I'd  take  you  to  your  room  at 
once,  only  I  hardly  know  which  Mrs.  Schuyler  would  wish  you 
to  have.  The  best,  though,  of  course,  as  you  are  her  mother. 
Yes,  I  think  I'll  venture  that.  Come  with  me,  please ; "  and 
Gertie  led  the  way  up  the  broad,  long  stairs  to  the  guest  cham- 
ber of  the  house,  the  one  reserved  for  people  like  Mrs.  Gen. 
Morton  and  Mrs.  Gov.  Strong,  who  sometimes  visited  at  Schuy- 
ler Hill. 

But  Mrs.  Barrett  knew  better  than  to  take  it.  She  was  not 
so  sure  of  Edith's  delight,  while  the  colonel,  she  felt,  would 
never  forgive  her  if  he  found  her  in  his  best  room.  So  she  said 
to  Gertie : 

"  I  do  not  believe  I  had  better  take  this,  as  I  shall  probably 
remain  a  long  time,  and  a  smaller,  plainer  chamber  will  do 
for  me, — one  near  you,  if  I  can  have  it,"  she  added,  with  an  in- 
stinctive feeling  that  in  Gertie  she  should  find  her  strongest  ally 
and  friend. 

"  Come  to  my  room,  then,  and  wait.  Mrs.  Schuyler  will  soon 
be  here,"  Gertie  said,  and  while  she  spoke,  there  was  the  sound 
of  wheels,  and  looking  through  the  blinds,  Mrs.  Barrett  saw  her 
daughter  in  her  carriage  coming  up  the  avenue,  and  scanned 
her  curiously. 

"What  a  great  lady  she  is,  though,"  she  said,  aloud,  "and 
what  a  handsome  house.  I  wonder  if  she  blames  me  now  ?  " 

From  having  lived  alone  so  much,  Mrs.  Barrett  had  acquired 
the  habit  of  talking  to  herself,  and  she  was  startled  when  she 
met  Gertie's  eyes  fixed  wonderingly  upon  her,  and  became 
aware  that  she  was  speaking  her  thoughts  aloud. 

"  That's  she ;  that's  Edith  ;  I  hear  her  voice,"  she  said, 
beginning  to  tremble  with  excitement,  and  anticipation,  and 
dread.  "Would  you  mind  telling  her  I'm  here?"  she  added, 
feeling  intuitively  that  if  she  was  to  have  a  shock  Gertie  would 
stand  between  her  and  the  battery,  and  thus  make  it  easier  to 
bear. 

"  Certainly,  I'll  tell  her,"  Gertie  replied,  while  there  began  to 
dawn  upon  her  a  faint  suspicion  that  possibly  Mrs.  Barrett  might 
not  be  altogether  welcome. 


326  MRS.    DOCTOR  BARRETT. 

Edith  had  never  voluntarily  mentioned  her  mother  in  Gertie's 
hearing,  and  when  the  latter  spoke  of  her,  as  she  sometimes 
did,  she  turned  the  conversation  at  once  into  another  channel. 
This  Gertie  now  remembered,  and  when  she  added  to  it  the  few 
words  Mrs.  Barrett  had  inadvertently  let  fall  about  her  daugh- 
ter's blaming  her,  she  felt  sure  there  was  some  misunderstanding 
between  mother  and  daughter ;  and  while  she  stood  firmly  by 
Edith,  as  the  one  probably  least  in  fault,  she  felt  a  great  pity 
for  the  tired,  worn  woman,  whose  face  was  so  much  paler  and 
thinner  than  when  she  last  saw  it,  and  she  resolved  to  do  the 
best  for  her  she  could. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Schuyler,"  she  said,  meeting  the  lady  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  and  detaining  her  there  while  she  spoke.  "  Wait 
a  moment,  please,  before  you  go  up.  I  have  some  good  news 
for  you,  real  good,  too.  And  you  will  be  so  glad.  I  was,  and 
she  is  nothing  to  me  either.  Guess  who  has  come  ?  " 

Edith  could  not  guess,  though  a  thrill  ran  through  her  nerves, 
and  without  the  slightest  reason  for  it  she  felt  the  touch  of  the 
iron  fingers  at  her  throat,  and  her  voice  was  a  whisper  as  she 
asked  : 

"  Who  is  it,  Gertie  ?  " 

"  Your  mother,  and  she  is  so  tired  and  pale,  and  is  trembling 
all  over  to  see  you,"  Gertie  replied,  surer  than  ever,  from  the 
expression  of  Edith's  face,  that  there  was  something  unpleasant 
between  them. 

"  My  mother  !  My  mother  here,  in  this  house,"  Edith  said, 
and  her  voice,  which  she  had  recovered,  reached  to  the  upper 
hall  where  her  mother  stood,  hearing  the  words  and  feeling  them 
like  so  many  stabs,  for  she  knew  now  she  was  not  welcome. 

Edith  was  not  glad,  though  her  feelings  were  less  for  herself 
than  for  her  husband.  Try  as  she  might  she  had  never  been  able 
quite  to  forgive  her  mother  for  the  false  position  in  which  her 
falsehood  had  placed  her,  and  she  felt  she  could  never  trust 
her  again.  Still  she  was  her  mother,  and  nothing  could  undo 
that,  and  she  was  there  in  her  house,  unasked,  it  is  true,  but  as 
a  mother,  she  had,  perhaps,  a  right  to  come ;  or  would  have 
had,  if  the  husband  had  not  expressed  himself  so  decidedly 


MRS.   DOCTOR  BARRETT.  327 

against  it ;  and  that  was  where  Edith  felt  most  keenly.  What 
would  Col.  Schuyler  say  ?  Would  he  blame  her  ?  And  would 
the  result  be  estrangement  and  coldness  between  them  ?  That 
something  would  come  of  it  she  was  sure,  and  as  if  she  already 
felt  the  shadow  of  the  something  which  would  result  from  that 
visit  of  her  mother's,  and  threaten  both  her  life  and  reason,  she 
stood  a  moment  unable  to  move  while  Gertie  stared  at  her 
amazed,  and  the  mother  still  stood  waiting  in  the  hall  above. 
Recovering  herself  at  last  she  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  and  on 
toward  her  own  room,  where  she  naturally  expected  to  find  her 
visitor.  But  Mrs.  Barrett  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  and 
called  to  her  :  "  Here,  Edith  ;  here  I  am  ;  here's  your  poor  old 
mother." 

Then  Edith  turned  and  went  swiftly  to  the  spot,  and, 
touched  by  the  trembling  voice  and  the  tired,  white  face,  which 
had  grown  so  old,  forgot  everything  for  a  moment,  and  winding 
her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck,  kissed  her  lovingly,  and  then 
leading  her  to  her  own  room,  shut  the  door  and  sat  down  to 
look  at  her. 

"You  didn't  expect  me,  I  know,"  Mrs.  Barrett  began,  in  a 
half  defiant,  half  apologetic  tone  ;  "  and  perhaps  I  did  wrong  to 
come  ;  but  I  was  so  tired  of  living  alone,  with  nothing  to  do 
but  think  from  one  day  to  another  ;  and  then  I  wanted  so  much 
to  see  you,  in  the  handsome  home  I  got  for  you.  A  mother 
has  a  right  to  visit  her  child,  you  know." 

This  she  said  because  of  the  expression  on  Edith's  face, 
which  she  could  not  understand  any  more  than  she  could  real- 
ize that  the  refined,  elegant  woman  clad  in  velvet  and  ermine 
was  her  daughter, — her  own  flesh  and  blood.  Edith  had  grown 
far  away  from  her  mother,  and  there  was  scarcely  a  sentiment 
in  common  between  them.  Still  she  wished  to  do  right,  and 
when  her  mother  said  what  she  did,  she  replied  : 

"  Yes,  certainly,  you  have  a  right ;  and  I  am " 

She  did  not  get  any  further,  for  the  voice  which  made  her 
start  as  it  said  : 

"Edith,  my  dear,  whose  is  all  that  remarkable-looking  bag- 
gage down  in  the  hall  which  I  stumbled  over  just  now  ?  " 


328  MRS.   DOCTOR  BARRETT. 

Colonel  Schuyler  had  ridden  round  to  the  stable,  and  giving 
his  horse  to  the  care  of  the  groom,  had  entered  the  house 
through  the  side  hall,  where  Mrs.  Barrett's  numerous  boxes  and 
bundles  had  been  deposited  by  the  express  man,  who,  as  the 
lady  was  not  in  sight,  made  a  little  charge  against  the  colonel 
for  bringing  it  from  the  station.  Mrs.  Barrett  believed  in  hav- 
ing things  secure,  and  in  addition  to  locks  and  hasps  had  tied 
her  boxes  with  cords  and  ropes,  which,  with  the  marks  of  age 
and  travel,  gave  them  a  "  remarkable  appearance  "  indeed,  and 
the  colonel  stumbled  over  them  and  struck  his  ankle  against  the 
sharp  corner  of  one  of  them,  and  he  was  sufFering  from  the  pain 
when  he  put  the  question  to  his  wife,  without  a  thought  that  the 
obnoxious  baggage  was  part  and  parcel  of  his  mother-in-law, 
who  sat  a  little  in  the  shadow,  and  whom  he  did  not  see  till 
Edith  said  to  him  : 

"Why,  it  must  be  mother's  baggage.  I  did  not  know  it  was 
here.  Howard,  see !  here's  mother  ! — come  all  the  way  from 
England !  " 

Edith  was  as  near  hysterical  as  she  well  could  be  and  not 
break  down  entirely,  while  the  colonel  was  confounded,  and 
amazed,  and  indignant,  altogether.  When  he  knocked  his 
ankle  against  the  bo  :  and  saw  the  bits  of  rope,  he  had  thought 
of  the  Lyles,  and  wondered  if  it  could  be  they  were  claiming 
relationship  so  soon  ;  and  now  it  was  even  worse  than  the 
Lyles, — it  was  a  mother-in-law  whom  he  did  not  like,  and  to 
whom  he  had  sent  larger  sums  of  money  every  year  for  the  sake 
of  keeping  her  where  he  wished  her  to  remain.  But  she  was 
here  in  his  house,  and  had  evidently  come  to  stay,  and  he  must 
not  be  rude  to  her  for  Edith's  sake  ;  so  he  made  a  great  effort 
to  be  civil,  and  said  : 

"  Ah,  yes, — your  mother  !  Mrs.  Barrett,  how  do  you  do  ? 
I  am, — yes,  I  am  sure  I  am  very  much, — yes, — taken  by  sur- 
prise. When  did  you  come  ?  You  must  be  very  tired.  Edith, 
my  dear,  hadn't  you  better  show  her  to  her  room  ?  " 

He  had  made  his  speech,  and,  anxious  to  be  rid  of  her,  asked 
Edith  to  take  her  away  ;  and  Edith,  who  breathed  more  freely 
now  that  the  worst  was  over,  arose,  and  bidding  her  mother  fol- 


MRS,    DOCTOR  BARRETT.  329 

low  her,  conducted  her  to  the  small  but  pleasant  room  adjoin- 
ing Gertie's  and  communicating  with  it  by  means  of  a  door. 
To  Edith  it  seemed  that  her  mother  was  safer  near  to  Gertie, 
while  Mrs.  Barrett  was  delighted  with  the  arrangement,  especi- 
ally as  Gertie  signified  her  willingness  to  have  the  door  kept 
open  when  Mrs.  Barrett  liked. 

It  was  known  in  the  kitchen  by  this  time  that  the  soiled, 
jaded  little  woman  with  the  queer-looking  baggage  was  Mrs. 
Schuyler's  mother,  and  among  the  servants  there  was  much  talk 
and  speculation  concerning  her.  Had  she  come  to  stay  ?  was 
she  expected  ?  was  the  colonel  glad  to  see  her  ?  and  what  was 
she,  anyway  ?  Mrs.  Tiffe  knew  all  about  the  lodgers  and  the 
plain  sewing,  while  the  lower  grade  of  servants  knew  a  great 
deal  more,  and  had  among  them  a  tradition  that  Mrs.  Schuyler's 
mother  once  sat  under  an  umbrella  in  the  streets  of  London, 
and  sold  gingerbread,  and  apples,  and  peanuts,  and  boot-lacings. 
And  now  she  was  here  to  be  treated  like  Mrs.  Schuyler  herself, 
and  John  sniffed  a  little  contemptuously  when  he  went  in  to 
wait  upon  the  family  at  dinner. 

But  there  was  nothing  to  sniff  at  in  the  highly  respectable- 
looking  woman,  whom  Gertie  had  helped  to  dress  in  her  best 
black  silk,  with  the  widow's  cap  set  jauntily  above  the  snow- 
white  puffs  of  hair,  and  the  air  of  quiet  dignity  which  Mrs.  Bar- 
rett knew  so  well  how  to  assume,  even  when  unusually  embar- 
rassed as  she  was  now,  with  so  much  grandeur  and  display 
around  her,  and  Edith  mistress  of  it  all.  Truly,  she  did  a  good 
thing  when  she  withheld  the  letter  which  would  so  surely  have 
changed  her  daughter's  life,  she  thought,  when  she  was  alone  in 
her  room  that  night,  and  free  to  recall  the  chain  of  events  which 
had  resulted  in  her  being  there. 

Edith,  too,  was  thinking,  and  her  thoughts  kept  her  awake 
until  long  after  midnight,  when,  as  she  was  about  falling  away 
to  sleep,  she  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  groan,  which  seemed 
to  come  from  her  mother's  room,  and  a  moment  after  Gertie 
knocked  at  her  door,  saying  : 

"  Please,  Mrs.  Schuyler,  I  think  Mrs.  Barrett  is  very  sick." 

In  a  moment  Edith  was  out  of  bed  and  knotting  the  cord  of 


330  THE  STORM  GATHERING. 

her  dressing-gown  with  trembling  hands,  while  the  colonel,  also 
roused  from  his  first  deep  sleep,  and  remembering  Mrs.  Rogers, 
who  had  gotten  Edith  up  at  midnight,  wondered  to  himself 
"  why  these  people  would  always  persist  in  being  sick  at  such 
inopportune  times,  and  send  for  Edith  to  help  them." 

The  colonel  was  very  sleepy  and  a  little  inclined  to  be  un- 
reasonable, and,  after  Edith  had  gone  to  her  mother,  he  lay 
awake  for  a  long  time  listening  to  the  sound  of  voices  in  Mrs. 
Barrett's  soom,  the  shutting  of  doors,  the  footsteps  in  the  hall, 
and  the  general  commotion,  until  he  began  to  wonder  if  for 
Edith's  sake  he  ought  not  to  get  up  and  see  what  was  the 
matter. 

Ere  long,  however,  he  heard  Mrs.  Tifle  say  to  one  of  the 
maids,  as  she  passed  his  door,  that  it  was  nothing  but  cramps 
and  a  good  deal  of  hypo ;  and  thus  reassured  he  composed 
himself  to  sleep,  and  did  not  waken,  when,  in  the  gray  of  the  early 
morning,  Edith  crept  shivering  to  his  side. 


CHAPTER  L. 

THE    STORM    GATHERING. 

[iT  was  more  than  the  cramps  and  the  hypo  which  ailed 
Mrs.  Barrett,  though  at  first  it  seemed  much  like  both, 
and  after  seeing  her  fall  away  to  sleep,  Edith  went  to 
her  own  room  without  a  thought  of  danger.  But  later  in  the 
morning,  when  she  stood  again  by  her  mother's  bedside,  and 
saw  how  pinched  her  features  were,  and  how  old  and  worn  she 
looked  without  her  teeth  and  puffs  of  hair,  and  how  weak  and 
helpless  she  seemed,  she  began  to  feel  some  alarm  and  sent 
for  the  physician  at  once.  It  was  a  severe  cold,  the  doctor 
said,  and  there  was  no  danger  to  be  apprehended  ;  but  Mrs. 
Barrett  thought  differently.  She  had  a  settled  conviction  that 
the  sickness  coming  on  so  fast  was  her  last.  She  had  only 


THE  STORM  GATHERING.  331 

come  to  America  to  die,  and  Edith  would  not  long  be  troubled 
with  her,  she  said,  in  reproachful  tones,  which  she  meant  should 
make  her  daughter  sorry  that  she  had  not  b,een  more  pleased 
to  see  her.  And  Edith  was  sorry,  and  made  every  possible 
amends  by  nursing  her  herself,  and  staying  constantly  with 
her. 

And  yet  with  all  the  care  Mrs.  Barrett  grew  worse,  and  every 
succeeding  day  found  her  weaker  than  the  preceding  one  had 
left  her.  She  did  not  seem  to  have  any  vitality  or  rallying  force, 
and  without  any  real  disease  sank  so  fast  that  within  two  weeks 
after  her  arrival  in  Hampstead,  she  came  to  the  point  where  she 
looked  death  in  the  face  and  knew  he  was  waiting  for  her. 

There  was  no  hope,  and  her  only  share  in  Edith's  grandeur 
would  be  a  costly  coffin  and  a  great  funeral,  when  many  would 
look  upon  her  face,  never  dreaming  that  they  had  seen  it  before. 
That  was  all,  and  she  knew  it  now,  and  as  earth  began  to  fade 
away,  and  the  realities  of  the  next  world  loomed  darkly  in  the 
distance,  remorse  came  hand  in  hand  with  the  shadow  of  death, 
and  filled  her  heart  with  horror  and  anguish  when  she  remem- 
bered the  past  and  her  sad,  wasted  life.  It  was  no  comfort 
to  her  now  that  the  baptismal  waters  had  once  bedewed  her 
head,  and  she  been  numbered  outwardly  with  the  children  of 
God.  To  her  there  had  never  been  any  reality  in  religion. 
Everything  was  done  for  effect,  and  because  it  was  respectable. 
For  her  there  was  no  efficacy  in  Jesus'  blood,  no  heart  yearnings 
after  His  presence,  or  tears  because  she  could  not  feel  Him 
with  her.  Even  her  praying  had  only  been  in  public  when  it 
was  the  proper  thing  to  do,  for  by  herself  she  never  prayed, 
never  till  now,  when  she  stood  face  to  face  with  death,  and  felt 
her  burden  of  guilt  and  sin  rolling  over  her  like  a  mountain,  and 
crushing  her  to  the  earth.  Then  conscience  awoke,  and  like 
David  she  cried  : 

"  My  sin  is  ever  before  me." 

Oh,  that  one  particular  sin  !  How  it  haunted  her  day  and 
night,  seeming  so  much  larger  than  all  the  rest,  and  making 
her  shrink  away  from  Edith's  presence  and  cover  her  head  with 
the  bed-clothes,  so  as  not  to  see  the  face  bending  so  kindly  over 


332  THE  STORM  GATHERING. 

her.  For  many  long  years  she  had  slighted  the  Holy  Spirit,  and 
trampled  on  her  conscience,  until  it  would  almost  seem  that 
the  one  was  hard  as  a  rock  and  the  other  flown  forever.  But 
God's  mercy  is  infinite,  and  He  was  giving  her  another  chance, 
and  leading  her  back  to  Himself  throught  he  thorny  path  her  own 
deeds  had  made  for  her  feet  to  walk  in.  At  last  when,  she  could 
bear  the  anguish  no  longer,  and  must  speak  to  some  one,  she 
said  to  Gertie,  who  was  sitting  with  her  that  night : 

"  Gertie,  are  you  a  Christian  ?     Do  you  ever  pray  ?  " 

The  question  was  very  abrupt,  and  Gertie's  face  flushed,  and 
she  waited  a  little  before  answering : 

"  Yes,  I  pray,  and  hope  I  am  a  Christian  in  the  sense  you 
mean.  And  you  are  a  Christian,  too  ?  "  she  added,  after  a 
pause  ;  and  Mrs.  Barrett  said  quickly  : 

"  No,  never.  There  was  nothing  real ;  all  was  for  effect,  and 
now  it  is  like  so  many  scorpions  stinging  me  to  madness,  and 
one  act  hurts  me  worse  than  all  the  rest.  Gertie,  if  you  had 
done  something  very  wicked  years  ago,  something  which  no- 
body in  the  wide  world  knew  besides  you,  but  which  concerned 
another  very,  very  much,  what  would  you  do  ?  you,  who  pray 
and  hope  you  are  a  Christian  ?  " 

Ordinarily  Gertie  would  have  thought  herself  too  young 
and  inexperienced  to  offer  advice  to  one  so  much  her  senior, 
and  whom  she  had  believed  so  good  a  woman,  but  now 
words  seemed  put  into  her  mouth,  and  she  answered  unhesitat- 
ingly : 

"  I  should  ask  God  to  forgive  me  ;  and  if  the  person  so  much 
concerned  was  within  my  reach  I  should  confess  it  to  him,  I 
think." 

There  was  a  bitter  cry,  and  Gertie  saw  great  drops  of  sweat 
on  Mrs.  Barrett's  brow  as  she  moaned  : 

"  Yes,  that  is  it, — only  I  must  reverse  it.  Confess  to  her  first, 
and  then  I  can  dare  to  pray,  which  I  cannot  now.  Oh,  Gertie, 
Gertie, — never,  never  tell  a  lie  as  long  as  you  live." 

She  was  very  much  excited,  and  seemed  at  times  to  be  out 
of  her  head,  and  talked  queer  things  of  the  blue-eyed  baby,  "  the 
child  who  she  thinks  is  dead." 


THE  STORM  BURSTS.  333 

"Oh,  where  is  it  now,  and  what  was  its  fate?"  she  kept 
whispering  to  herself,  and  once,  as  Gertie  bent  over  her  to 
bathe  her  head,  she  said,  "Are  you  she, — the  girl,  the  child, 
you  know  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  only  Gertie  ;  try  to  sleep  and  not  talk  any  more 
to-night.  You  will  be  better  in  the  morning  and  can  tell  Mrs. 
Schuyler,"  Gertie  said,  feeling  intuitively  that  Edith  was  the 
person  concerned  in  the  secret  troubling  the  guilty  woman  so 
much. 

She  was  sure  of  it  when  Mrs.  Barrett  answered  : 

"  Yes,  I  must  tell  her.  I  must.  Heaven  give  me  strength 
to  do  it." 

Perhaps  this  was  the  first  genuine  prayer  she  had  ever  made, 
and  as  if  already  better  for  it  she  became  more  quiet  and  slept 
sweetly  till  the  dawn  of  the  morning,  when  Edith  came  to  see 
how  she  had  passed  the  night  and  relieve  Gertie  of  her  watch. 

"  Go  to  bed  now,  child,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will  see  that  you 
are  not  called  till  lunch.  You  must  be  very  tired." 

Gertie  obeyed,  and  going  to  her  own  room,  the  adjoining  one, 
was  soon  in  a  deep  sleep,  while  Edith  took  her  place  by  Mrs. 
Barrett's  bedside. 


CHAPTER   LI. 

THE    STORM    BURSTS. 

|RE  you  cold?"  Edith  asked,  as  she  saw  how  her  mother 
trembled,  and  taking  one  of  the  hands  which  lay  out- 
side the  bed,  she  was  going  to  chafe  and  rub  it,  when 
her  mother  snatched  it  away,  and  raising  herself  upright,  cried 
out : 

"  Don't  touch  me,  Edith,  till  you  have  heard  my  story,  then 
curse  me  if  you  will  and  let  me  die ;  but  first  open  that  square 
box  there  in  the  corner,  and  in  my  writing  desk  find  the  letter 


334  THE  STORM  BURSTS. 

you  wrote  to  him, — you  know, — the  letter  which  I  kept, — you 
remember  it." 

Edith  remembered  it  well,  and  she  trembled  in  every  joint  as 
she  did  her  mother's  bidding,  and  brought  the  time-soiled  letter, 
which  seemed  to  burn  the  hand  which  held  it,  and  to  communi- 
cate to  her  a  presentiment  of  the  terrible  shock  awaiting  her. 
That  her  mother's  story  had  something  to  do  with  her  past  life 
she  was  sure,  but  she  never  dreamed  of  the  truth  as  she  brought 
the  letter  and  offered  it  to  her  mother. 

"  No,  it's  for  you  ;  keep  it,  Edith.  You  will  want  it  some 
time,  perhaps,  to  prove  that  you  at  least  meant  fair.  I  have 
written  a  few  lines  on  it  myself  to  show  your  innocence,"  Mrs. 
Barrett  said,  and  Edith  put  the  letter  mechanically  into  the 
pocket  of  her  dressing-gown,  while  her  mother  continued  : 
"  Edith,  before  I  begin,  promise  me  one  thing, — not  your  for- 
giveness,— I  do  not  expect  that, — but  promise  to  do  what  I  ask 
when  my  story  is  finished." 

"  How  can  I  promise  to  do  a  thing  unless  I  know  it  will  be 
right  ?  "  Edith  asked. 

"  It  is  right,"  Mrs.  Barrett  said  ;  "  I'd  do  it  myself,  only  I  am 
old  and  sick  and  going  to  die,  and  I  did  not  think  about  it  in 
England  as  I  do  here  on  my  death-bed.  But  you  are  young ; 
you  have  health  and  money  and  time.  You  can  look  it  up, 
and  you  will,  Edith.  You  will  when  you  know." 

She  spoke  in  a  whisper,  and  Edith  shook  from  head  to  foot, 
as  she,  too,  said  in  a  whisper : 

"Yes,  mother,  I  will." 

She  did  not  know  what  she  was  pledged  to  do.  She  only 
knew  that  the  terror  of  something  horrible  was  upon  her,  be- 
numbing her  faculties,  chilling  her  blood,  and  forcing  her 
heart  into  her  throat,  which  the  iron  hand  held  so  firmly.  It 
was  something  about  the  child,  her  little  girl, — something  about 
the  way  it  died  ;  and  her  brown  eyes  were  black  in  the  inten- 
sity of  her  feelings  as  she  fastened  them  upon  her  mother,  who, 
cowering  beneath  that  gaze,  cried  out : 

"Look  away,  Edith  ;  look  somewhere  else,  and  not  at  me, 
or  I  can  never  tell  you." 


THE  STORM  BURSTS.  335 

But  the  eyes  did  not  move,  and  shutting  her  own,  the 
wretched  woman  began  : 

"You  remember  I  took  your  letter  and  did  not  give  it  to 
him,  but  told  him  what  I  pleased.  Have  you  ever  told  him 
the  truth  ?  " 

Edith  could  not  so  much  as  articulate  the  one  word  no,  and 
when,  as  she  continued  silent,  her  mother's  eyes  unclosed  and 
looked  inquiringly  at  her,  she  only  shook  her  head  in  token 
that  she  had  not. 

"  Then  you  must  do  it  now  !  There's  no  other  way.  You'll 
need  his  co-operation,"  Mrs.  Barrett  said,  and  Edith's  eyes 
were  like  flaming  coals  of  fire  as  they  confronted  her  so 
steadily. 

"  Edith,"  her  mother  went  on,  "  do  you  remember  the 
dreary  room  in  Dorset  Street,  and  the  day  it  rained  so  hard  ?  " 

Did  she  remember  it  ?  Ask  rather  if  she  ever  could  forget  it, 
when,  even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,  she  never 
heard  the  sound  of  rain  against  the  windows  or  saw  it  falling  in 
the  street,  that  she  did  not  recall  that  dreadful  day  of  fog  and 
rain  and  darkness  when  her  child  was  taken  from  her.  But  she 
could  not  speak,  and  her  mother  continued  : 

"  I  took  the  baby  from  you  and  carried  her  to  the  hospital, 
and  then,  when  you  insisted  upon  going  after  her,  I  went  in 
your  place,  and  when  J  came  back  I  told  you, — oh,  Edith, 
don't  look  at  me,  don't  curse  me  yet.  I  told  you  sh-she, — 
sh-she " 

"  You  told  me  she  was  dead.     Was  that  a  lie,  too  ?  " 

Edith  could  speak  now,  though  the  effort  to  do  so  almost 
tore  open  her  throat,  where  her  heart  seemed  palpitating  so 
wildly.  Seizing  her  mother's  shoulder  she  shook  it  fiercely  as 
she  put  the  question  : 

"  Was  that  a  lie,  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Edith,  that  was  a  lie,  too  !  " 

Mrs.  Barrett's  voice  was  a  whisper,  but  had  the  words  been 
uttered  in  tones  of  thunder  they  could  not  have  written  them- 
selves more  distinctly  on  Edith's  mind  than  they  did. 

"  That  was  a  lie,  too  I "  she  repeated,  rising  to  her  feet,  and 


336  THE  STORM  BURSTS. 

seeming,  to  her  horror-stricken,  remorseful  parent  to  grow  tall 
and  terrible  in  her  excitement,  as  she  clutched  the  shoulder  more 
fiercely,  and  said  :  "  That  was  a  lie,  too,  was  it  ?  Mother,  as 
you  hope  for  heaven  tell  me  the  whole  truth  now.  Baby  was 
not  dead  then  when  you  said  she  was  ?  " 

"  No,  Edith,  not  dead  then " 

"  Is  she  dead  now  ?  "  and  the  hand  pressed  so  hard  upon  the 
thin  shoulder  that  Mrs.  Barrett  cringed  with  pain,  but  did  not 
shake  it  off,  and  scarcely  knew  what  was  hurting  her,  as  she  re- 
plied : 

"  I  don't  know,  Edith." 

"  You  don't  know  !  Tell  me  what  you  do  know,  and  tell  me 
truly,  too,  as  you  will  one  day  confess  to  heaven  when  you  are 
questioned  of  the  great  wrong  done  to  me." 

Edith  was  wonderful  in  her  excitement,  with  her  blazing  eyes 
and  livid  face,  and  her  mother  gazed  at  her  an  instant  fascinated 
and  unable  to  reply  ;  then,  closing  her  eyes  again,  she  said  : 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know.  I  went  to  the  hospital  and  meant 
to  bring  her  to  you.  I  did,  Edith, — believe  me  there.  I  meant 
to  bring  her  to  you,  for  I  knew  no  other  way.  But  when  I  in- 
quired for  the  child  Heloise  left  there  at  such  a  time,  I  was  told 
that  it  had  been  taken  by  a  woman  whose  name  was  Stover. 
The  woman  had  given  good  references,  they  said,  and  was  the 
mother  of  one  of  the  nurses.  She,  too,  lived  in  Dorset  Street, 
not  far  from  our  old  quarters.  I've  got  the  number, — there,  on 
that  letter  you  wrote  to  Colonel  Schuyler, — and  three  or  four 
months  afterward  I  went  there  and  inquired  for  the  woman,  but 
she  was  dead,  and  the  people  who  occupied  the  floor  above  said 
her  daughter  had  taken  the  baby  and  gone  away  with  it  in  a 
handsome  carriage,  and  that  is  all  I  know, — truly,  Edith,  all  1 
know.  I've  never  been  able  to  trace  her,  though  I  tried  once, 
just  after  you  left  me  to  come  here.  I  missed  Gertie  so  much, 
and  wanted  hef  so  much  that  I  began  to  think  of  looking  for 
the  grandchild,  who  would  have  been  about  her  age,  and  I  tried 
to  find  her,  but  could  not.  I  don't  believe  she  is  dead.  I  never 
have,  and  you,  with  money  and  influence,  can  track  her  sure, 
and  you  will ;  this  is  what  you  promised.  I  shall  be  dead,  but 


THE  STORM  BURSTS.  337 

shall  rest  easier  in  my  grave  if  you  find  her.  Edith,  why  don't 
you  speak,  if  it  is  only  to  curse  me.  Anything  is  better  than 
this  awful  silence,"  she  implored,  and  then,  as  there  came  no 
answer,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  turned  them  toward  her  daugh- 
ter, who  stood  over  her  as  white  and  rigid  as  if  frozen  into  stone. 

Her  hand  had  let  go  its  grasp  of  her  mother's  shoulder  and  hung 
listlessly  down  by  her  side,  her  eyes  seemed  fixed  on  vacancy, 
though  in  reality  they  were  seeing  that  little  blue-eyed  baby  up 
in  some  square  room  in  Dorset  Street,  surrounded  with  wretch- 
edness and  poverty,  while  she,  the  mother,  was  rolling  in  wealth, 
with  luxury  and  elegance  everywhere.  Truly  it  was  a  terrible 
picture  to  contemplate,  but  not  so  terrible  as  the  second  one 
presented  to  her  mind,  the  picture  of  a  young  girl  grown  to 
womanhood,  as  that  blue-eyed  baby  must  be,  and  sunk,  per- 
haps to  the  lowest  depths  of  misery  and  possible  shame,  for 
who  was  there  to  teach  her,  to  keep  her  feet  from  straying  when 
the  mother  had  abandoned  her  ?  It  was  this  which  affected 
Edith  the  most,  and  froze  her  almost  to  catalepsy  during  the 
moment  she  stood  without  the  power  to  speak  or  stir,  her  head 
bent  forward,  her  hands  hanging  down,  her  eyes  fixed  and  glassy, 
and  a  white  froth  oozing  from  her  lips,  which  moved  at  last,  and 
said,  slowly,  painfully  : 

"  May  Heai 'en  forgive  you,  mother,  for  I  never  can  /" 

Another  moment  and  Edith  fell  heavily  across  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  while  Mrs.  Barrett's  loud  shriek  roused  Gertie  from  sleep 
and  brought  her  to  the  room. 

"It's  a  fit, — she  is  dying, — she  is  dead,"  Mrs  Barrett  murmur- 
ed, pointing  to  Edith,  who  for  hours  lay  in  a  stupor  wrhich  seem- 
ed like  death,  and  from  which  nothing  had  power  to  rouse  her. 

Gertie  had  summoned  help  at  once,  and  the  colonel  was  the 
first  in  the  room,  and  held  his  fainting  wife  in  his  arms,  and  felt 
a  mortal  fear  steal  over  him  when  he  saw  the  deadly  paleness 
and  the  foam  about  the  lips,  the  purple  rings  beneath  the  eyes, 
and  the  head  drooping  so  heavily  on  his  shoulder.  It  was 
overtasking  her  strength,  and  sitting  up  so  much  with  her 
mother,  he  thought,  and  the  doctor  thought  so  too,  and  when  be- 
fore the  sunsetting  they  buried  in  the  cemetery  the  little  daughter 


338  THE  STORM  BURSTS. 

whose  eyes  never  opened  in  this  world,  and  whom  Edith  never 
saw,  they  were  sure  it  was  over-exertion  at  a  time  when  she 
needed  all  her  strength,  and  the  colonel's  affection  for  his 
mother-in-law  was  not  perceptibly  increased.  She  had  offered 
no  explanation  whatever  with  regard  to  the  fit,  except  that  it 
came  suddenly,  when  Edith  was  standing  by  her.  Indeed  she 
was  nearly  distracted  herself,  and  Gertie,  who  watched  by  her, 
would  not  have  been  surprised  to  see  her  life  go  out  at  any 
moment. 

1  For  some  reason  there  seemed  to  be  a  strong  prejudice  in 
the  house  against  the  woman.  Nobody  wanted  to  wait  on  her, 
nobody  wanted  to  go  near  her,  and  so  Gertie  became  her  sole 
nurse,  though  she  wished  so  much  to  be  with  Mrs.  Schuvler, 
who  was  raving  in  the  room  across  the  hall,  and  whom  it  some- 
times took  two  men  to  hold. 

But  Gertie's  duty  was  plain,  and  she  stayed  with  the  poor  old 
woman,  who  clung  to  her  like  a  child,  talking  strange  things  at 
times,  and  asking  questions  hard  for  Gertie  to  answer. 

"  Would  God  forgive  her  sin  ?    Was  there  yet  hope  for  her  ?  " 

This  was  the  burden  of  her  sorrow  ;  and  many  times  in  the 
day,  and  during  the  night-watches  she  kept  so  tirelessly,  Gertie 
knelt  and  prayed  that  every  sin,  however  great,  committed  by 
the  wretched  woman,  might  be  forgiven  and  washed  away  in 
Jesus'  blood. 

"  Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they  shall  be  white  as  snow," 
she  repeated  often  in  the  ears  of  the  dying  woman,  who  would 
reply  : 

"  Yes,  I  know,  I  know,  but  some  sin  beyond  hope,  and  I  am 
one  of  these.  AH  my  life  has  been  a  lie,  and  I  meant  it  should 
be.  And  now  it  is  all  thick  darkness  whichever  way  I  look.  I 
never  did  a  genuine  good  thing  in  my  life.  All  was  for  effect, 
except  my  love  for  you,  Gertie  j  there  was  no  motive  for  that. 
My  love  for  you  was  real,  and  when  you  left  me  alone  in  Eng- 
land 1  tried  once  to  pray,  truly  pray  on  my  knees  alone  when 
nobody  saw  me  ;  but  something  whispered,  inopkjngjy,  '  You 
pray?'  and  I  did  not  try  again.  Oh,  what  shall  I  tlu  ?  WhjU 
shall  1  do,  the  horror  is  so  great  ?  " 


THE  STORM  BURSTS.  339 

"  Jesus  came  to  save  sinners,  even  the  chief  of  sinners,  and 
He  will  do  it ;  He  said  so,  and  He  never  told  a  lie,"  Gertie 
whispered,  softly. 

And  Mrs.  Barrett  caught  the  "  chief  of  sinners"  as  if  she  had 
never  heard  it  before,  and  held  to  it,  and  kept  repeating  to  her- 
self, "  The  chief  of  sinners  ;  that's  I ;  He  must  have  meant  me, 
{.he  very  chiefest." 

Then  she  would  ask  Gertie  to  pray, — that  the  sin  might  be 
forgiven,  and  the  girl  kept  from  harm,  and  without  knowing  at 
all  for  whom  she  prayed  or  what  particular  sin,  Gertie  did  pray 
many  times,  and  did  her  best  to  soothe  and  comfort  the  re- 
morseful woman,  who  grew  more  quiet  at  last,  and  exhibited 
less  terror  of  death  and  the  world  beyond. 

f'  I  may  yet  be  saved,  but  it  will  be  as  by  fire,"  she  said  to 
Gertie  one  day, — the  seventh  since  the  morning  when  Edith  had 
been  borne  insensible  from  her  room. 

In  her  own  agony  of  mind  Mrs.  Barrett  had  not  evinced  much 
interest  in  Edith's  illness,  nor  did  she  know  how  sick  she  was 
until,  when  more  quiet  herself,  she  asked  for  her  daughter,  and 
why  she  did  not  come  to  see  her.  Then  Gertie  told  her  of  the 
fever  which  was  raging  so  high,  and  with  the  tears  pouring  over 
her  withered  face,  Mrs.  Barrett  said  : 

"  I  shall  never  see  her  again  ;  but  tell  her,  Gertie,  how  bitterly 
I  repented,  and  how  at  the  last  peace  came,  even  to  me.  Tell 
her,  too, — and  don't  forget  this  message,  which  will  comfort  her, 
perhaps, — tell  her  the  last  words  she  ever  said  to  me  must  not 
make  her  unhappy.  I  deserved  them.  I  do  not  blame  her, 
and  she  need  not  remember  them  with  regret,  though  she  will 
forgive  me  some  time.  Heaven  has,  I  hope." 

She  was  very  quiet  after  that  for  the  remainder  of  the  day,  and 
lay  with  her  eyes  shut  ;  but  several  times,  when  Gertie  looked 
at  her  to  see  if  she  was  asleep,  she  saw  her  lips  move,  and  knew 
that  she  was  praying.  That  night"  was  her  last,  for  she  died 
toward  morning, — alone  with  Gertie,  as  she  wished  to  be. 

"  Don't  call  anyone,  please,"  she  said,  when  Gertie  proposed 
going  for  Mrs.  Tiffe.  "  Iki  rather  be  alone  with  you,  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  me,  and  who,  I  am  sure,  like  me  a  little." 


340  THE  STORM  BURSTS. 

«  Yes, — I  do,  I  do  ! "  Gertie  said,  kissing  the  white  face,  on 
which  the  death-dew  was  standing. 

And  Mrs.  Barrett  continued  : 

"It  is  strange  that  you  should  be  the  one  to  care  for  me  at 
the  last,  as  tenderly  as  if  you  were  my  own  grandchild.  Have 
you  a  grandmother,  Gertie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  or  I  had  one  once,  though  I  never  saw  her ;  but  Auntio 
Rogers  said  so,  and  told  me  all  I  ever  knew  of  my  family,  which 
is  very  little.  Sometimes  I  have  strange  ideas,  as  if  I  belonged 
to  nobody,  and  then  I  try  so  hard  to  recall  what  it  was  I  once 
overheard  auntie  saying  to  her  sister  in  London  years  ago. 
Miss  Anne  Stover  was  at  our  house " 

"  Stover  !  Stover  !  "  Mrs.  Barrett  repeated,  raising  herself  in 
bed  and  quivering  in  every  nerve. 

"  Yes,  she  was  auntie's  sister,  you  know ;  and  said  something 
about  somebody's  being  identified  by  a.mar&,  and  there's  a  mark 
on  my  bosom,  low  down " 

"A  mark  of  what?"  Mrs.  Barrett  asked,  eagerly. 

And  Gertie  replied : 

"  It  is  like  a  drop  of  blood." 

"Blood  !  Did  you  say  a  drop  of  blood  ?"  and  Mrs.  Barrett 
shook  as  with  an  ague  chill  as  she  fell  back  upon  her  pillow, 
while  Gertie  bent  over  her,  and  bathed  her  bro°w  and  lips  until, 
rallying  all  her  energies,  she  said  :  "  Gertie,  Gertie  !  tell  Edith, 
— tell  her  !  Oh,  if  1  could  live  to  see  her  myserf !  Gertie,  my 
child,  God  bless  you  !  I  know  He  has  forgiven  me  now  ! " 

Her  arms  closed  tightly  around  Gertie's  neck,  and  held  her 
there  in  a  close  embrace  until  the  girl  herself  unclasped  them, 
and,  putting  them  gently  down  upon  the  bed,  saw  that  Mrs. 
Barrett  was  dead. 

And  just  across  the  hall  in  her  own  room  Edith  lay,  now 
singing  snatches  of  some  lullaby  to  an  unseen  child,  which  she 
hushed  in  her  arms,  now  talking  of  the  rain  upon  the  window- 
pane,  the  tramp  upon  the  stairs,  the  roar  in  the  streets,  and 
again  laughing  deliriously  at  something  she  said,  and  which 
seemed  to  strike  her  as  ridiculous.  And  by  her  Colonel  Schuy- 
Ici  sal,  with  the  fear  of  death  in  his  heart,  when  Gertie  came  in 


THE  STORM  BURSTS.  341 

and  told  him  there  was  really  death  in  the  next  room,  and  asked 
if  he  had  any  orders  to  give. 

"  None, — no,  do  what  you  like,"  he  answered,  quickly  ;  then 
glancing  at  the  white  face  on  the  pillow,  and  remembering  that 
she  who  lay  dead  beneath  his  roof  was  his  young  wife's  mother, 
he  rose  and  added  :  "I'll  go  myself  and  see  her;"  and  follow- 
ing Gertie,  he  soon  stood  by  the  motionless  form  of  her  who 
had  been  his  mother-in-law,  and  whose  presence  in  his  house 
had  annoyed  him  so  muBfc. 

But  she  would  trouble  him  no  more.  All  he  could  do  for  her 
now  was  to  give  her  a  burial,  and  for  Edith's  sake  that  burial 
should  be  as  perfect  in  its  appointments  as  if  the  dead  had  been 
his  own  mother,  whom  twenty  carriages  had  followed  out  to 
Greenwood.  There  were  almost  as  many  as  that  drawn  up  be- 
fore the  house  on  Schuyler  Hill  on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  for  far 
and  near  the  people  knew  of  the  cloud  hanging  over  that  house- 
hold ;  of  the  aged  mother  just  arrived  from  England,  and  dead 
before  she  had  even  seen  her  daughter's  handsome  home  ;  of 
the  little  grave  in  the  cemetery,  made  there  too  soon,  and  of 
the  chamber  where  Edith  lay,  raving  in  mad  delirium,  and  tear- 
ing her  hair  until  they  tied  her  hands  to  keep  them  from  further 
mischief.  And  so  they  came  from  every  quarter  and  filled  the 
house  to  overflowing,  save  the  south  wing,  where  Edith  was ; 
that  was  bolted  against  them,  and  the  murmur  of  the  gathering 
multitude  did  not  penetrate  there  enough  to  awaken  the  slight- 
est interest  in  Edith.  Only  a  .very  few  beside  myself  were  per- 
mitted to  see  the  dead  woman,  lying  so  still  in  the  costly  casket 
which  the  colonel  had  ordered  from  New  York,  and  to  us,  who 
looked  upon  her,  there  came  no  suspicion  that  we  had  ever  seen 
that  face  before.  It  was  very  calm  and  peaceful  in  its  last  sleep, 
and  many  said,  "  She  must  have  been  fine-looking  when  in 
health,"  while  in  every  heart  there  was  a  profound  pity  for  the 
stranger  who  had  died  so  soon  in  a  foreign  land,  and  for  whom 
there  was  no  mourner  at  the  grand  funeral,  except  Gertie. 

During  the  services  the  colonel  left  Edith  long  enough  to 
come  down  to  the  parlor  and  listen  while  the  prayers  were 
said  and  the  hymns  were  sung ;  then  he  went  back  to  Edith, 


342  THE  STORM  BURSTS. 

and  strangers  did  the  rest,  making  the  funeral  seem  so  sad  and 
lonely  without  a  blood  relation  except  little  Arthur,  whose 
shoulder-knots  and  sash  were  black,  and  whom  Gertie  led  by 
the  hand  when  she  went  out  to  the  Schuyler  carriage,  which 
was  to  take  her  to  the  grave  as  first  and  only  mourner. 

"Go  with  me,  Miss  Armstrong,"  she  whispered,  as  she 
passed  me  in  the  hall,  and  I  followed  after  her  until,  as  the 
carriage  was  reached,  and  she  was  about  to  enter,  when  I  felt  a 
sudden  rush  behind  me,  and  was  con^Pfous  that  something  un- 
usual was  agitating  the  crowd,  and  causing  it  to  divide  and  fall 
back  as  if  to  give  room  for  some  one.  It  was  for  Godfrey,  who, 
flushed  and  excited,  made  his  way  through  the  throng  of  people, 
and  lifting  Gertie  from  the  ground  as  if  she  had  been  a  feather's 
weight,  put  her  in  the  carriage  before  she  knew  whose  arms 
were  encircling  her  in  so  tender,  masterful  a  manner  as  if  they 
had  the  right.  Little  Arthur  was  put  in  next,  and  then  Godfrey 
followed  himself,  closing  the  door  behind  him,  and  effectually 
shutting  me  out.  But  I  knew  it  was  better  so,  and  was  glad  he 
was  there,  a  hrlp  and  a  comfort  to  Gertie.  By  the  merest  ac- 
cident he  had  heard  that  morning  from  Tom  Barton  of  Mrs. 
Barrett's  death  and  Edith's  illness,  and  had  taken  the  next  train 
for  Hampstead,  which  he  reached  just  in  time  to  join  the  funeral 
procession.  Nor  was  his  coming  inopportune.  He  had  a  feel- 
ing, he  said,  that  everything  would  devolve  on  Gertie,  who 
would  need  somebody  to  sustain  her.  And  she  did,  and  when 
recovered  from  the  first  shock  of  finding  Godfrey  beside  her, 
caring  for  her  so  kindly,  she  gave  way,  and  her  head  drooped  for 
a  moment  on  his  shoulder,  as  she  sobbed  out :  "  Oh,  Godfrey, 
what  made  you  come  ?  I  am  so  glad,  so  glad." 

"  What  for  you  tie,  then,  if  you'se  glad  ?"  Arthur  said,  look- 
ing curiously  from  Gertie  to  Godfrey,  and  from  Godfrey  back  to 
Gertie,  as  if  not  quite  sure  that  all  was  right. 

"  Halloo,  you  little  shaver,  who  thought  you  could  put  two 
and  two  together,"  Godfrey  said,  as  he  took  his  brother  in  his 
lap  and  held  him  there  until  they  reached  the  grave  ;  then  he 
alighted  and  stood  with  the  child  between  himself  and  Gertie, 
while  the  burial  service  was  read. 


THE  BATTLE  BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH.     343 

"That's  my  danmusser  in  the  box,"  Arthur  said,  aloud,  as 
the  coffin  was  lowered  from  sight,  and  when  the  bystanders 
heard  it  more  than  one  wept  for  the  lonely  woman,  the  "dan- 
musser" of  the  little  three-years-old  Arthur,  whose  golden  curls 
were  tossed  by  the  November  wind  as  he  stood  on  tiptoe  lean- 
ing forward  to  look  into  the  grave  and  throw  the  wreath  of  ever- 
lastings he  had  brought  for  this  purpose. 

Arthur  was  greatly  attached  to  his  tall  brother  Godfrey,  and 
hung  about  him  constantly  after  the  return  from  the  grave,  and 
told  both  Mrs.  Tiffe  and  his  father  that  "  Dirtie  had  tied  on 
Godfrey's  coat  'cause  she  was  so  glad  danmusser  was  dead." 

Godfrey  had  intended  to  return  that  same  night  if  possible, 
but  when  he  spoke  of  it  before  Gertie  it  seemed  to  him  that  her 
eyes  pleaded  with  him  to  stay,  and  when  he  stood  for  a  moment 
as  he  did  at  Edith's  bedside  and  saw  how  sick  she  was,  he  felt 
that  to  leave  was  impossible  until  the  balance  was  turned  one 
way  or  the  other,  and  he  knew  whether  his  fair  young  step- 
mother lived  or  died. 


CHAPTER   LII. 

THE    BATTLE    BETWEEN    LIFE    AND    DEATH. 

]ROM  the  moment  when  Edith  fell  fainting  across  her 
mother's  feet,  she  had  never  known  a  moment's  con- 
sciousness,  but  had  either  lain  like  one  from  whom 
life  had  fled  forever,  or  raved  in  wild  delirium  as  she  tossed 
from  side  to  side,  trying  in  vain  to  free  herself  from  the  strong 
arms  which  in  mercy  held  her  so  fast.  Her  lost  baby  was  her 
theme  ;  but  at  first  the  colonel  attached  no  meaning  to  it,  think- 
ing it  but  natural  that  her  mind  should  dwell  upon  the  little  one 
dead  before  it  was  born.  Still,  it  was  strange,  he  thought,  that 
she  should  rave  about  it  so  furiously,  begging  him  to  go  and 
find  it  and  rescue  it  from  the  streets,  and  bring  it  to  her,  so  she 
could  tell  it  she  was  not  altogether  to  blame. 


344     THE  BATTLE  BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

"  Oh,  my  daughter  !  my  lost  daughter  ! "  she  would  moan  ; 
"where  are  you  now,  and  where  have  you  been  these  many 
years,  when  I  thought  you  dead  in  your  little  grave  ?  " 

Then  she  would  whisper  to  some  fancied  person  standing  by 
her  bed,  and  ask  him  to  forgive  her  for  the  wrong  done  to  his 
child,  and  when  the  colonel  said  to  her,  gently,  "  Edith,  dar- 
ling,  you  have  not  harmed  our  child,"  she  would  answer  him  : 

"No, —  not  yours!  Oh,  you  don't  know, — you  would  kill 
me  if  you  did  !  Oh,  my  baby !  my  baby,  who  went  in  the 
rain  ! " 

What  she  meant  the  colonel  could  not  guess,  and  he  grew 
old  and  worn  as  he  watched  beside  her,  listening  to  her  rav- 
ings, and  trying  to  find  some  cause  for  them.  She  never  men- 
tioned her  mother,  and  did  not  know  when  she  died  ;  but  she 
seemed  quieter  that  day,  and  while  the  people  were  at  the 
grave  she  suffered  her  husband,  for  the  first  time  since  her  ill- 
ness, to  hold  her  hand  in  his ;  but  her  lips  quivered  and  the 
tears  rained  down  her  cheeks  as  she  kept  whispering  :  "  I  am 
so  sorry,  Howard, — so  sorry  !  and  I  did  not  know  it,  or  I  would 
have  told  you." 

"  Sorry  for  what,  darling  ?  There's  nothing  to  be  sorry  for," 
the  cornel  said,  as  he  kissed  her  tears  away  and  bade  her  try 
to  sleep.  She  knew  Godfrey,  and  as  if  feeling  intuitively 
that  she  had  a  friend  in  him,  she  tried  to  tell  him  something 
about  a  child  lost  in  the  streets,  whom  he  was  to  find  and  bring 
to  her,  "  pure,  spotless,  unharmed."  She  laid  great  stress  on 
the  last  words,  and  Godfrey  promised  to  do  her  bidding  if  she 
would  go  to  sleep  and  not  distress  herself  so  much. 

"  I  will,  I  will.  See,  I'm  asleep  ! "  she  said,  closing  her  eyes 
tightly,  and  lying  so  still  that  in  a  few  moments  she  u<as  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  Gertie  was  standing  near,  and  at  sight  of 
her  a  bright  smile  broke  over  Edith's  face  as  she  looked  up  at 
Godfrey,  and  said  : 

"  You  found  her,  didn't  you,  pure  and  unspotted  as  an 
angel  ?  " 

>     Nobody  knew  at  all  what  she  meant,  or  spoke  to  her  as  she 
fondled  Gertie's  face  and  hands,  and  asked  her  where  she  had 


THE  BATTLE  BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH.     345 

been  so  long,  and  how  it  was  she  was  so  fair  and  sweet,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  girls  in  the  street.  Then  for  a  moment  con- 
sciousness struggled  to  assert  itself,  and  she  seemed  to  know 
who  Gertie  was,  and  whispered  to  her : 

"  Stay  with  me, — I'm  better  when  I  see  you." 

Once  before  Gertie's  presence  had  called  her  back  from  the 
border  land  of  death,  and  now  she  was  so  much  quieter  with 
her  there  that  Gertie  never  left  her  except  for  the  rest  which 
she  absolutely  needed.  In  this  condition  of  affairs  Godfrey 
had  no  chance  for  seeing  Gertie  alone,  except  on  one  occasion, 
when  he  met  her  for  a  moment  in  a  side  hall,  and  stopping  her 
as  she  was  passing  him,  said  to  her  : 

"  Gertie,  have  you  not  changed  your  mind  ?  Must  your 
answer  to  me  be  always  the  same  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Godfrey,  always  the  same.  Go  back  to  Alice  ;  try  to 
love  her.  You  will  be  happier  so,"  was  Gertie's  reply,  and 
Godfrey  answered : 

"  Never,  so  long  as  I  have  my  senses.  I  will  wait  for  you  a 
thousand  years." 

He  tried  to  kiss  her  hand,  but  she  snatched  it  from  him,  and 
hurried  away  to  the  sick-room.  The  next  day  he  returned  to 
New  York,  and  soon  after,  in  a  letter  to  her  father,  Julia  spoke 
of  her  brother  as  having  escorted  Alice  to  a  grand  party  given 
by  the  Montgomeries  on  Madison  Avenue. 

This  piece  of  news  the  colonel  managed  to  convey  to  Gertie, 
who  felt  a  pain  in  her  heart  as  she  guessed  what  the  end  would 
probably  be.  Edith  was  better  now.  The  fearful  paroxysms 
had  ceased,  and  she  lay  very  quiet  and  still,  seldom  speaking  to 
any  one,  but  shuddering  and  manifesting  actual  distress  when 
her  husband  came  to  her  with  words  and  acts  of  tenderness. 

"  Don't,  please  ;  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  said  to  him  once,  when 
he  brought  a  bouquet  and  laid  it  iipon  her  pillow. 

He  thought  the  perfume  offended  her,  and  took  the  flowers 
away  ;  then,  sitting  down  beside  her,  told  her  how  glad  he  was 
that  she  was  better,  and  how  desolate  the  house  seemed  with- 
out her. 

For  a  moment  she  listened  to  him  while  every  muscle  in  her 
iq* 


346        THE  BATTLE  BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

face  worked  painfully  ;  then,  bursting  into  tears,  she  put  up 
both  her  hands  to  hide  her  face,  and  cried  : 

"Don't,  Howard,  you  break  my  heart.  Oh,  Howard,  my  hus- 
band, pity  me,  but  don't  make  it  harder  with  words  of  love. 
Go  away,  please,  and  do  not  come  again  till  I  send  for  you  ; 
then  you  will  want  to  go." 

He  felt  hurt  and  wounded,  but  did  as  she  bade  him,  and  left 
her  with  Gertie  ;  nor  did  he  see  her  again  for  one  whole  week, 
except  when  she  was  asleep,  and  could  not  be  disturbed  by  his 
presence.  Then  he  would  go  in,  and  bending  over  her  kiss  her 
face  softly,  and  smooth  the  golden  brown  hair,  and  calling  her 
his  poor  darling  leave  behind  some  little  token  to  show  that 
he  had  been  there. 

At  last  Edith  asked  for  her  mother  suddenly,  and  in  a  way 
which  admitted  of  no  prevarication,  and  Gertie  told  her  every- 
thing, as  carefully  as  possible. 

"  Colonel  Schuyler  bade  us  do  whatever  we  thought  you 
would  like  to  have  done,  and  he  ordered  the  casket  from  New 
York,  and  was  down  stairs  during  the  services,"  Gertie  said, 
and  then  Edith's  heart  seemed  bursting  with  a  storm  of  sobs 
and  piteous  cries,  which  Gertie  could  not  understand. 

"  Oh,  my  husband,  my  noble  husband,  what  will  he  say  ? 
what  will  he  say  ?  "  she  murmured  to  herself,  while  Gertie  stood 
looking  at  her. 

At  last  she  grew  quiet,  and  turning  to  Gertie,  said  : 

"  Now  tell  me  how  mother  died,  and  who  was  with  her,  and 
what  she  said." 

And  Gertie  told  her  what  had  passed  in  the  chamber  of 
death,  of  the  terrible  remorse  for  something  which  was  evidently 
weighing  on  Mrs.  Barrett's  mind,  the  bitter  repentance,  the 
peace  which  came  at  last,  and  the  message  left  for  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler. 

"  She  was  very  particular  about  that,"  Gertie  said  ;  "  for  she 
thought  you  might  be  unhappy,  perhaps,  if  you  did  not  know  it, 
and  she  said  you  would  forgive  her  some  time." 

"  1  may,  I'll  try.  I  hope  I  do,  but  it  is  very  hard,"  Edith  re- 
plied, and  then  for  an  hour  or  more  she  lay  with  her  eyes  closed, 


THE  BATTLE  BETWEEN  LIFE  AND  DEATH.      347 

though  she  was  not  asleep,  and  when  at  last  she  opened  them 
she  asked  where  her  husband  was,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  see 
him. 

Gertie  told  her  that  as  she  was  so  much  better  and  did  not 
need  him  constantly,  he  had  gone  to  New  York  for  two  or 
three  days,  she  believed. 

"  His  going  was  very  sudden,"  she  said,  "  and  I  knew  noth-^ 
ing  of  it  till  just  before  he  went,  when  he  came  to  me  and  said 
it  was  necessary,  and  if  you  asked  for  him  I  was  to  tell  you  he 
would  be  back  soon.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  came  to- 
night." 

Instead  of  manifesting  any  disappointment  Edith  seemed 
relieved  at  her  husband's  absence,  as  if  it  gave  her  a  longer 
respite  ;  but  she  little  dreamed  why  he  had  gone,  or  of  the  fear- 
ful storm  of  anguish  through  which  he  had  passed,  and  which 
left  its  marks  upon  him  so  plainly,  that  when  at  the  close  of  the 
third  day  he  came  back,  Gertie,  who  met  him  first  in  the  hall, 
started  in  surprise,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Nothing,  only  tired  ;  how  is  Mrs.  Schuyler  ?"  he  said,  and 
his  voice  sounded  husky  and  unnatural,  while  it  seemed  to  Ger- 
tie as  if  he  stooped  and  tottered  like  an  old  man  as  he  went 
slowly  up  the  stairs,  holding  to  the  banisters  and  pausing  once 
as  if  to  rest. 

He  did  not  go  straight  to  Edith's  room,  but  into  his  library, 
and  Gertie  took  him  some  biscuits  and  a  glass  of  wine,  for  she 
was  frightened  at  his  weakness  and  exhaustion.  He  thanked 
her  for  her  thoughtfulness,  and  said,  with  a  sickly  kind  of  smile  : 

"  I  think  I  do- need  something.  I  have  scarcely  tasted  food 
since  I  left  home.  How  many  days  ago  is  that,  Gertie  ?  " 

His  manner  was  strange,  and  Gertie  stayed  with  him  and  made 
him  drink  the  wine,  and  eat  a  cracker,  and  then  watched  him 
curiously  as  he  went  down  the  hall  to  Edith's  room,  which  he 
entered  and  shut  the  door. 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  AND    THE  SECRET. 
CHAPTER    LIII. 

COLONEL   SCHUYLER   AND   THE     SECRET. 

JE  knew  it  now  in  part,  and  the  knowledge  of  it  had  aged 
him  as  ten  years  of  ordinary  life  could  not  have  donei 
making  him  feel  old  and  worn  and  bewildered,  and 
uncertain  whether  it  really  were  himself  upon  whom  this  blow 
had  fallen.  And  it  had  come  to  him  thus :  Mrs.  Barrett  had 
brought  her  grandson  a  fanciful  whistle,  of  which  he  was  very 
fond,  and  which,  since  Edith's  illness,  could  not  be  found. 

"  I  wants  my  fissle  danmusser  brought  me,"  Arthur  said  to 
his  father,  who  was  amusing  him  in  the  nursery  one  day,  the 
fourth  after  Edith  had  banished  him  from  her  room  and  bidden 
him  stay  away  until  she  sent  for  him. 

"  I  wants  my  fissle"  the  child  kept  saying,  and  then  the  search 
for  it  commenced  again,  and  Mary,  the  nurse,  suddenly  remem- 
bered having  seen  it  last  on  the  day  when  her  mistress  was  taken 
sick.  "  She  had  Arthur  in  her  lap,  and  might  have  put  it  in  her 
pocket.  She  sometimes  did  so,"  she  said. 

"  What  dress  did  she  have  on  ?  "  the  colonel  asked,  and  on 
being  told  went  himself  to  the  closet  where  the  cashmere  wrapper 
was  hanging.  The  missing  toy  was  there,  and  also  the  letter, 
which  he  drew  out  with  the  whistle  and  held  a  moment  in  his 
hand,  wondering  what  it  contained,  and  why  it  had  never  reached 
him. 

"  Col.  Howard  Schuyler,  Oakwood,"  was  the  direction  in 
Edith's  handwriting,  and  by  that  he  knew  that  it  was  written 
years  ago  when  he  was  in  England,  and  his  wonder  increased 
as  to  the  cause  of  its  having  been  so  long  withheld  and  not  de- 
slroyed. 

'  Had  Edith  written  it,  intending  to  send  it  to  him,  and  then 
changed  her  mind,  and  if  so,  why  ?  he  asked  himself  as  he  stood 
turning  it  over  in  his  hand,  and  then  there  flashed  upon  him  a 
remembrance  of  the  time  when  she  said  he  did  not  know  all 
about  that  early  love  affair  of  hers,  and  he  felt  convinced  that 


COLONEL  SCHUYLER  AND    THE  SECRET.          349 

the  all  was  contained  in  that  soiled,  yellow  letter.  And  if  so, 
should  he  read  it  ?  Ought  he  to  read  it  ?  he  questioned,  as, 
having  given  the  toy  to  Arthur,  he  went  to  his  own  private  room 
to  be  alone  and  think.  Never  since  Edith  came  to  Hampstead 
had  there  been  the  slightest  allusion  to  that  affaire  du  cceur  to 
which  she  had  seemed  to  attach  so  much  importance,  and  he 
had  not  the  least  idea  who  the  young  man  was  or  where  he  had 
lived  and  died.  Possibly  it  was  all  here  in  the  letter,  which 
he  laid  down  and  took  up  again  three  times  before  deciding  to 
read  it.  And  when  at  last  he  did  open  it  and  glanced  at  the 
heading,  "  Caledonia  St.,  June  2oth,  18 — .  Col.  Howard  Schuy- 
ler :  Dear  Sir,"  he  would  not  for  a  moment  let  his  eye  go  any 
further,  but  held  it  fast  on  the  "  Dear  Sir,"  while  he  pondered 
again  his  right  to  read  the  letter.  Then  his  eye  wandered  a 
little  and  caught  a  word  here  and  there,  and  lighted  at  last  on 
the  names  "  Abelard  Lyle  "  and  "  Rev.  Mr.  Calvert,"  and  then 
he  began  at  the  beginning  and  read  every  word  twice,  to  be 
sure  there  was  no  mistake,  while  his  heart  seemed  to  stop  beat- 
ing, and  he  tore  off  both  cravat  and  collar  in  order  to  breathe 
more  freely.  There  was  a  humming  in  his  ears,  and  he  could 
not  hear  the  December  storm  beating  against  the  windows,  and 
there  was  a  mist  before  his  eyes,  so  that  he  could  not  see  the 
paper  he  held  in  his  trembling  hand.  Nor  was  vision  longer 
needful  to  him.  He  had  read  and  re-read,  and  the  lines  had 
burned  themselves  into  his  brain  word  for  word,  and  even  with 
his  eyes  shut  he  could  see  the  sentence,  "  Abelard  Lyle,  your 
hired  workman,  was  my  husband,  and  I  was  Heloise  Fordham, 
who  lived  in  the  cottage  by  the  bridge  at  Hampstead." 

"Abelard  Lyle  her  husband/"  he  tried  to  say,  but  his  lips 
only  gave  a  sound  which  made  him  shiver  and  wonder  if  he  was 
dying,  it  was  so  unnatural,  so  like  the  cry  of  an  animal  wounded 
and  in  mortal  agony. 

And  he  was  wounded,  sorely,  and  every  nerve  quivered  with 
pain,  and  he  could  feel  the  hot  blood  surging  through  his 
veins  as  he  had  felt  it  once  when  under  the  influence  of 
ether.  Then  he  had  fought  and  struck  at  the  dentist  operating 
on  him,  and  acted  like  a  madman.  But  he  did  not  do  so 


35°  COLONEL   SCHUYLER  AND    THE   SECRET. 

now.  He  neither  fought  nor  struck,  but  sat  motionless,  think- 
ing of  the  words,  "  Abelard  Lyle  was  my  husband,  and  I  was 
Heloise  Fordham." 

He  remembered  that  young  girl,  remembered  the  face  framed 
in  the  green  leaves,  and  the  clear  voice  telling  him  Abelard's 
name  and  place  of  birth.  He  remembered,  too,  that  people 
had  said  the  young  man  was  her  lover,  and  how  suddenly 
she  disappeared  with  her  mother.  And  Edith,  his  Edith,  the 
woman  he  loved  so  much,  was  that  girl ! — was  Abelard's  wife, 
and  the  mother  of  his  child,  and  had  married  him  without  telling 
him  a  word  of  the  real  truth  as  written  in  this  letter !  There 
had  been  a  show  of  sincerity,  and  that  was  all.  She  had  at  first 
meant  to  tell  hmi,  but  had  changed  her  mind  and  given  him  no 
hint  of  the  actual  state  of  things.  She  had  really  come  to  him 
stained  with  falsehood  and  treachery  and  deceit,  a  lie  on  her 
lips,  a  lie  in  her  heart,  and  a  lie  in  every  act  of  hers,  since  her 
beautiful  head  was  first  pillowed  on  his  bosom. 

Oh,  what  bitter  things  he  thought  against  her  in  the  first  mo- 
ments of  surprise  and  anguish  !  How  black  the  record  was, 
and  how  he  shrank  from  ever  looking  in  her  face  again,  as  he 
thought  of  the  imposition  practised  upon  him. 

"  Oh,  Edith  !  Edith  !  I  loved  you  so  much,  and  thought  you 
so  innocent  and  pure.  I  can  never  trust  you  again,  or  take  you 
for  my  wife,"  he  said,  when  his  lips  could  frame  his  thoughts 
into  words,  and  his  heart  was  hardening  like  adamant  against 
the  woman  who  had  so  deceived  him,  when  the  door  was  pushed 
cautiously  open,  and  little  Arthur  came  in,  blowing  his  whistle 
vigorously  at  first,  and  then  staring  wonderingly  at  his  father's 
white,  haggard  face. 

"  What  is  it,  papa  ?  "  he  said.  "  Is  you  sick,  too,  like  mam- 
ma ?"  and  the  mother  looked  through  her  boy's  eyes  straight  at 
the  suffering  husband,  who  recognized  the  look,  and  clasping 
his  child  and  Edith's  in  his  arms,  sobbed  and  wept  over  him  just 
as  he  would  have  done  had  Edith  really  been  dead  and  Arthur 
motherless.  "  Is  you  tyin'  for  mam-ma  ?  Don't ;  she'll  det  well. 
Dirtie  and  the  doctor  will  ture  her.  Is  you  tyin'  for  her  ?  "  Ar- 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  AND    THE  SECRET.  351 

thur  said;  and  with  sobs  which  rent  his  very  heart,  Colonel 
Schuyler  answered  : 

"  Yes,  Arthur,  I'm  crying  for  her, — for  her, — your  mother. 
Oh,  Edith  !  my  lost  Edith  !  " 

"His  tears  poured  in  torrents  now,  and  did  him  good,  for  the 
pressure  around  his  heart  gave  way,  the  blood  flowed  more 
slowly  through  his  veins,  and  the  humming  ceased  in  his  ears,  as 
he  strained  Arthur  to  his  bosom  and  covered  him  with  the  kisses 
he  meant  as  a  farewell  to  the  mother.  He  could  never  touch 
her  false  lips  again,  but  he  could  kiss  her  child,  and  he  fondled 
and  wept  over  him,  and  then  bidding  him  go  away,  and  locking 
the  door  upon  him,  went  back  to  the  battle  he  was  fighting  be- 
tween justice  and  inclination. 

What  should  he  do  ?  What  ought  he  to  do  ?  Should  he  show 
the  letter  to  Edith,  and,  upbraiding  her  with  her  duplicity,  live 
henceforth  apart  from  her,  as  one  he  never  could  trust  again  ? 
or  should  he  keep  his  knowledge  to  himself,  and  try  to  act  as 
if  nothing  had  happened,  hoping  that  some  time  she  would  her- 
self tell  him  the  truth,  and  why  it  had  so  long  been  with- 
held ? 

He  could  not  decide  then  ;  he  was  in  no  condition  to  think 
clearly  of  anything,  except  that  his  Edith,  whom  he  had  taken 
for  a  pure,  innocent  young  maiden,  had  been  a  wife  and  mother, 
and  never  let  him  know  it.  What  her  motives  had  been  he 
could  readily  guess.  She  wanted  his  money  and  name,  and  the 
position  he  could  give  her,  and  if  she  told  him  all  she  feared 
the  result.  This  was  the  reason,  he  said,  and  yet  when  he  re- 
membered many  things  in  the  past,  he  could  not  reconcile  the 
two,  or  reason  clearly  about  anything. 

"  I  must  go  away  by  myself  and  think  it  out  alone,"  he 
thought,  and  glancing  at  his  watch,  and  seeing  there  was  yet 
time  for  the  down  train  to  New  York,  he  rose,  and  going  to 
the  door  of  Edith's  room,  knocked  softly,  and  asked  Gertie  to 
come  out  a  moment  to  him. 

"  I  am  going  away  for  a  day  or  two,  or  three  at  the  most," 
he  said.  "  Mrs.  Schuyler  is  out  of  danger,  and  as  in  her  present 
state  she  is  more  quiet  without  me,  I  shall  not  be  needed  for  a 


352  COLONEL  SCHUYLER  AND    THE   SECRET. 

little  time,  and  leave  her  in  your  care.  I  know  I  can  trust  you 
in  everything.  You  have  been  faithful  to  us,  Gertie  !  " 

He  wrung  her  hand  as  he  said  this,  feeling  for  the  moment  as 
if  of  all  his  family  Gertie  alone  had  not  forsaken  him.  Emily 
was  dead,  Emma  was  over  the  sea,  Godfrey  was  estranged, 
Julia  was  seeking  her  own  pleasure  with  a  party  of  friends  in 
Florida,  and  Edith,  oh,  how  far  she  had  drifted  aw-ay  from  him 
within  the  last  two  hours, — so  far  that  he  feared  she  could  never 
come  back  again,  just  as  she  was  before.  And  yet  he  loved  her 
so  much,  and  when  he  caught  through  the  open  door  a  glimpse 
of  her  white  face  upon  the  pillow,  he  experienced  a  keen  throb 
of  pain,  and  felt  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  go  to  her  and 
beg  her  to  tell  him  that  what  he  had  just  read  was  false,  that 
she  was  nought  to  Abelard  Lyle,  nought  to  that  woman  in  Aln- 
wick,  the  very  thought  of  whom  made  him  shudder  with  disgust. 
But  there  could  be  no  doubt.  He  had  it  in  her  handwriting, 
and  with  a  stifled  moan  he  walked  through  the  hall,  and  down 
the  stairs  out  into  the  yard,  where  he  ordered  his  man  to  take 
him  to  the  train. 

There  were  none  of  his  acquaintances  going  down  at  that 
time  of  the  day,  and  choosing  a  seat  near  the  door  behind  his 
fellow-passengers,  he  sat  with  his  coat-collar  turned  up,  and  his 
hat  over  his  eyes,  apparently  asleep,  though  never  was  sleep 
further  from  one's  eyes  than  from  his,  as  he  mentally  went  over 
with  the  story  told  in  Edith's  letter  and  tried  to  realize  it.  Ar- 
rived in  New  York  he  went  to  the  St.  Nicholas,  feeling  that  he 
should  be  more  secure  there,  as  Godfrey  and  his  friends  fre- 
quented the  hotels  farther  up  town.  He  wanted  as  private  a 
room  as  possible,  he  said,  with  his  meals  served  in  it,  and  no 
one  to  intrude ;  so  they  gave  him  one  far  up  on  the  fourth 
floor,  and  there  for  three  days  he  stayed,  never  once  leaving 
the  hotel,  or  taking  other  exercise  than  to  walk  up  and  down 
his  room,  and  this  he  did  for  hours  at  a  time,  with  his  hands  be- 
hind him,  and  his  head  bent  forward,  while  he  tried  "to  think 
it  out."  He  did  not  sleep,  and  the  chamber-maid  found  his 
bed  unruffled  morning  after  morning,  when  she  came  to  arrange 
his  room,  and  his  food  was  taken  away  untouched  unless  it  were 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  AND    THE  SECRET.          353 

a  bit  of  toast  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  which  he  compelled  himself 
to  swallow  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  when  he  felt  his 
strength  giving  way,  and  knew  he  must  take  something.  He 
had  thought  it  all  over  and  over  again,  and  gone  through  with 
every  incident  of  Edith's  life  as  narrated  in  her  letter,  and  was 
as  far  from  any  decision  as  ever. 

"If  she  had  told  me, — if  I  had  known,"  he  kept  repeating  to 
himself,  without  finishing  the  sentence,  for  he  did  not  know 
what  the  result  might  have  been  if  he  had  known  that  the  woman 
he  thought  to  make  his  wife  was  the  widow  of  his  hired  work- 
man, the  sister-in-law  of  Jenny  Nesbit,  among  the  Alnwick  Hills. 
"  If  I  had  loved  her  then  as  I  do  now,  it  would  have  made  no 
difference,"  he  said  to  himself  at  last,  "and  in  any  event  I 
should  have  respected  her  for  a  truthful,  conscientious  woman, 
which  I  cannot  do  now.  Oh,  Edith,  Edith,  how  you  have  fallen, 
and  I  thought  you  so  true  !" 

This  was  the  third  day  when  he  sat  exhausted  by  the  table 
where  the  letter  lay.  He  kept  it  there  constantly  in  his  sight, 
though  he  had  not  read  it  since  he  came,  but  he  took  it  up  now 
and  turning  to  the  first  page  began  to  read  it  again,  when,  on 
the  margin  in  the  lower  corner  his  eye  caught,  for  the  first  time, 
a  few  faint  pencil  marks,  almost  erased,  but  which  could  still  be 
made  out  with  care.  It  was  not  Edith's  handwriting,  and  in 
looking  closely  he  recognized  the  peculiar  style  of  Mrs.  Barrett, 
whose  writing  he  had  seen  on  the  back  of  Edith's  letters  re- 
ceived from  her.  What  had  she  written  there, — she  who,  at  her 
daughter's  instigation,  had  lied  so  foully  to  him  on  the  day  when 
she  came  with  that  smooth  story  of  ah  early  lore  and  nothing 
more!  He  askesl  himself  this  question,  and  as  he  asked  it, 
there  flashed  over  him  a  light  of  revelation  even  before  he  made 
out  the  pencil  lines. 

LONDON,  October  roth,  18 — . 

"  This  letter  Edith  bade  me  carry  to  Col.  Schuyler,  but  I  kept 
it  back  and  told  him  what  I  liked,  and  she  never  knew  of  the  de- 
ception until  just  after  she  ivas  married,  when  I  accidental!},'  let 
it  outt  and  she  fainted  away. 

"M.  BARRETT." 


354  COLONEL  SCHUYLER  AND    THE  SECRET. 

The  words  were  finely  written,  but  the  colonel  made  them  out, 
while  the  sudden  revulsion  from  despair  to  joy  was  almost  too 
much  for  him,  and  he  sat  for  a  moment  half  fainting  in  his  chair. 
Then  he  roused  himself,  and  his  first  words  were  : 

"  Thank  God  !  I  have  my  Edith  back  again  !  " 

It  must  have  been  in  some  moment  of  contrition  that  Mrs. 
Barrett  had  penned  the  words  with  which  from  her  grave  she 
now  spoke  for  her  injured  daughter.  Something,  sure,  had 
prompted  her  to  keep  the  letter  and  write  the  explanation  which 
brought  such  joy  to  Col.  Schuyler.  The  losing  faith  in  Edith's 
integrity,  the  belief  that  she  was  artful,  intriguing,  and  deceitful, 
had  hurt  him  a  thousandfold  more  than  the  humiliation  of  hav- 
ing married  the  widow  of  Abelard  Lyle.  He  had  hardly  given 
that  a  serious  thought,  so  great  was  his  disappointment  at  having 
found  Edith  false  as  he  believed  ;  and  when  she  was  proved 
otherwise  his  joy  was  as  acute  as  his  grief  had  been  intense. 
Every  circumstance  which  bore  at  all  upon  the  matter  came 
back  to  him,  and  he  remembered  so  distinctly  the  many  times 
since  their  marriage  when  Edith  had  tried  to  tell  him.  At  the 
inn  where  they  stopped  on  their  bridal  night  she  had  stolen  to 
his  side,  with  the  confession  on  her  lips,  and  he  had  not  listened 
to  her,  but  had  bidden  her  never  allude  to  the  past  again,  as  he 
was  satisfied.  Dear  Edith,  he  said,  aloud,  and  felt  again  the 
pressure  of  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  where  she  had  lain  it,  and 
heard  the  falter  in  her  voice  as  she  first  called  him  Howard. 
How  she  must  have  suffered  then  and  afterward  when  he  in- 
sisted upon  taking  her  with  him  to  the  Lyles.  He  knew  now 
the  secret  of  her  silence,  which  he  had  called  pride.  The  iron 
fingers  were  on  her  throat,  and  she  could  not  talk  in  Abelard' s 
home  with  that  dreadful  Jenny  sitting  there.  And  she  was 
Edith's  sister-in-law  !  The  colonel  shivered  from  head  to  foot 
when  he  remembered  that,  and  a  flush  of  shame  and  mortifica- 
tion spread  over  his  pale  face.  He  had  yet  to  fight  these  feel- 
ings down,  and  he  did  it  manfully,  and  said  to  himself  again  and 
again  : 

"  1  love  her  just  as  wall,  now  that  I  know  she  did  not  mean 
to  deceive  me,  just  as  well  as  if  she  had  never  seen  those  Lyles, 


COLONEL   SCHUYLER  AND    THE  SECRET.  355 

who  seem  thrust  upon  rne  at  every  point,  first  through  Emma 
and  then  through  Edith,  my  wife." 

He  liked  to  say  (i  my  wife,"  and  kept  repeating  the  name  as 
if  it  would  make  her  dearer  to  him,  and  wipe  out  every  feeling 
of  regret  for  the  incidents  of  her  early  life.  How  she  has  suf- 
fered, he  thought,  as  he  remembered  all  she  must  have  passed 
through  after  her  arrival  at  Hampstead,  and  he  could  under- 
stand now  the  meaning  of  her  strange  words  when"  their  first 
baby  was  born,  and  when  it  died.  She  was  thinking  of  the 
little  girl  whose  grave  she  never  saw,  and  in  the  transports  of 
his  joy  and  generosity  the  poor  man  thought  how  he  would,  if 
she  wished  it,  help  her  find  that  grave,  and  place  a  headstone 
there  to  the  memory  of  little  Heloise  Lyle  !  Nobody  would 
ever  connect  that  name  with  him  or  his,  and  he  was  glad  of 
that,  and  was  not  sorry  that  the  little  girl  was  dead,  and 
could  not  by  any  chance  come  up  as  a  witness  against  his 
Edith.  Alas,  he  never  dreamed  that  only  half  the  strange  story 
had  been  told,  that  his  love  and  generosity,  and  principle  of 
right  and  wrong  were  to  be  more  severely  tested  than  they  yet 
had  been.  He  was  human,  and  naturally  it  was  a  comfort  to 
him  to  think  that  Edith's  story  need  be  known  only  to  her  and 
to  himself.  It  should  be  their  secret,  and  die  with  them  when 
they  died,  and  the  world  never  be  the  wiser  for  it. 

That  the  secret  had  something  to  do  with  Edith's  recent 
dangerous  illness,  he  was  certain,  when  he  recalled  expressions 
and  ravings  which  had  puzzled  him  so  much  ;  and  he  knew,  too, 
or  thought  he  did,  why  she  shrank  from  him  as  she  alwavs  did 
when  delirious,  telling  him  she  was  unworthy  to  let  him  touch 
her.  But  this  should  be  so  no  longer  ;  he  would  go  home  to 
her  at  once,  and  as  soon  as  she  could  bear  it,  tell  her  that  he 
knew  the  whole,  and  loved  her  the  same  as  ever. 

He  did  not  stop  long  after  that,  but  calling  for  his  bill, 
hurried  to  the  station  and  was  soon  on  his  way  to  Schuyler 
Hill. 


356  HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 

CHAPTER   LIV. 

HUSBAND   AND   WIFE. 

E  found  his  wife  asleep,  with  her  cheek  resting  on  one 
hand,  her  hair  pushed  back  and  lying  in  masses  upon 
the  pillow.  He  had  seen  her  thus  many  times,  and  he 
paused  to  look  at  her  now,  and  thought  how  fair  and  lovely  she 
was  even  yet.  with  her  thirty-four  years  and  the  marks  of  her 
dangerous  illness.  Hers  was  a  face  which  does  not  grow  old, 
and  to  him  it  seemed  more  beautiful  than  it  had  been  on  her 
bridal  day,  because  he  loved  her  more  than  he  did  then,  and 
knew  how  sweet  she  was.  He  did  not  associate  her  in  the 
least  with  Abelard  Lyle  when  he  was  with  her.  It  was  some 
other  Edith  who  had  been  the  heroine  of  that  strange  romance, 
• — it  was  Heloise  Fordham,  the  girl  at  the  cottage,  who  had 
shed  such  bitter  tears  for  the  young  carpenter,  and  not  his  wife, 
lying  there  before  him  in  that  quiet  sleep.  She  was  Edith, — 
the  mother  of  his  little  boy,  and  he  stooped  at  last  and  kissed 
her  just  as  tenderly  as  if  that  letter  had  never  been  read  by  him, 
and  he  had  never  heard  of  the  Lyles  who  lived  in  Alnwick. 

The  kiss  roused  her  a  little,  and  turning  upon  her  pillow,  her 
lips  moved,  and  he  heard  her  say,  "Abelard,"  while  a  pang, 
keener,  sharper,  and  different  from  anything  he  had  known, 
shot  through  his  heart  and  brought  great  drops  of  sweat  to  his 
brow  and  lips. 

During  the  dreadful  three  days  when  he  was  "  thinking  it  out " 
he  had  experienced  no  jealousy  of  the  dead  youth,  or  for  an  in- 
stant believed  that  Edith  loved  him  still,  or  could  have  loved 
him  had  he  lived  till  now  and  met  her  for  the  first  time  in  the 
fulness  of  her  womanhood.  But  she  was  dreaming  of  him  sure, 
and  Colonel  Schuyler  would  have  given  much  to  know  the  na- 
ture of  the  dream. 

She  was  sleeping  again,  and  he  drew  a  chair  beside  her,  and 
with  his  eyes  fastened  upon  her  face,  sat  looking  at  her  until  he 
heard  Gertie  light  the  gas  in  the  adjoining  room,  preparatory  to 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE.  357 

putting  Arthur  to  bed.  This  was  something  the  child  would  al- 
low no  one  else  to  do.  and  now,  when  this  was  done,  he  in- 
sisted upon  "tissin"  mam-ma  just  once"  before  going  to  his 
crib. 

"Yes,  Gertie,  let  him  come,"  the  colonel  said,  as  he  heard 
the  clamor  at  the  door,  and  in  his  long  night-gown  the  boy  came 
in,  screaming  with  joy  at  sight  of  his  father,  and  crying  out,  as 
he  reached  out  his  arms  to  touch  his  mother's  face  : 

"Oh,  mamma!  mamma!  papa's  tome!  I'se  so  glad! — is 
you  ?  " 

Edith  was  awake  now,  and  started  when  she  saw  the  dark 
figure  and  guessed  whose  it  was. 

"  Papa's  tome  !  "  Arthur  said  again,  while  Gertie,  feeling  sure 
that  Mrs.  Schuyler  would  be  disturbed,  carried  him  forcibly 
away,  and  left  the  husband  and  wife  alone. 

Then  Colonel  Schuyler  arose,  and  bending  over  his  wife,  said 
softly  : 

"Edith,  darling,  I  have  come  home.  Are  you  glad  to  see 
me?"  He  did  not  wait  for  her  to  answer,  but  continued: 
"  They  tell  me  you  are  better,  and  I  am  so  rejoiced.  Kiss  me, 
can  you  ?  " 

She  kissed  him  as  he  desired,  and  he  felt  her  hot  tears  on  his 
cheek  as  he  held  his  face  to  her.  She  was  much  better  than 
when  he  left  her.  Reason  had  come  back  again,  and  she  could 
think  of  all  that  was  past,  and  what  lay  before  her,  and  she  shrank 
from  it,  and  from  her  husband,  who  must  soon  know  everything, 
and  who  might  turn  from  her  in  bitter  scorn  and  disgust.  Oh, 
how  she  loved  him  now !  and  how  her  poor  heart  ached  when 
she  thought  of  losing  his  respect  and  seeing  his  love  for  her 
turning  into  hatred.  For  he  did  love  her  ;  she  was  sure  of  that, 
and  never  had  Ins  manner  been  so  full  of  manly  tenderness  as 
it  was  when  he  came  to  her  after  an  absence  of  three  days  and 
asked  her  if  she  was  glad.  It  seemed  almost,  she  thought,  as  if 
he  were  pitying  her,  and  he  was,  and  wishing  he  could  help  her 
tell  him  what  he  was  certain  she  wanted  to.  But  it  must  not 
be  that  night ;  she  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  excitement.  He 
must  wait  till  she  was  stronger,  he  thought,  and  when  at  last,  as 


358  HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 

he  supported  her  in  his  arms  and  stroked  her  face  caressingly, 
she  said  to  him  : 

"  Now,  Howard,  please  lay  me  down,  and  do  not  come  again 
till  I  send  for  you  ;  "  he  went  away,  but  did  not  stay  till  she  sent 
for  him,  lest  it  should  be  too  long.  Every  day  he  went  to  see 
her,  and  tri^d  to  seem  natural,  and  once,  when  she  asked  why 
he  looked  so  thin  and  haggard,  he  answered  evasively  and  said 
he  had  a  cold,  and  then  went  straight  to  the  cemetery,  and, 
standing  at  Abelard's  grave,  read  the  inscription  aloud  : 

"  James  A.  Lyle.  Born  in  Alnwick,  England.  Died  June 
i8th,  18 — .  Aged  23." 

Then  he  examined  the  stone  and  tried  if  it  were  firm  in  its 
place,  and  kicked  the  snow  and  dead  leaves  from  a  tuft  of  dai- 
sies, which  looked  so  fresh  and  green  that  he  stooped  to  exam- 
ine it,  and  found  to  his  surprise  a  tiny  white  blossom  hidden 
under  the  snow  and  the  pile  of  leaves  and  straw  which  Gertie 
had  put  there  in  the  fall  to  protect  the  plants. 

"  Daisies  under  the  snow  on  his  grave.  It  is  very  remarka- 
able,"  he  said,  as  he  picked  the  little  flower,  and  going  back  to 
the  house  he  put  it  in  some  water,  and  set  it  on  the  table  in  his 
room,  where  he  watched  it  all  day  long  until  it  grew  to  be  almost 
a  phantom  and  he  felt  he  could  endure  it  no  longer. 

He  must  speak  to  Edith  or  go  mad  himself.  She  was  much 
better  now,  and  he  would  watch  with  her  that  night,  and  have 
it  out  when  there  was  no  fear  of  interruption.  But  he  did  not 
tell  her  of  his  intention  lest  she  should  oppose  it,  and  she  sup- 
posed her  attendant  was  to  be  Gertie,  who  frequently  slept  in 
the  room  with  her. 

Edith's  habit  was  to  sleep  from  nine  to  twelve,  but  this  night 
it  was  nearly  one  when  she  awoke  and  looked  about  her.  The 
gas  was  turned  down  and  the  bright  winter  moonlight  came 
through  the  window  and  fell  in  a  sheet  upon  the  floor,  making 
the  room  almost  as  light  as  day,  and  showing  plainly  the  figure 
sitting  so  motionless  in  the  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  It 
was  not  Gertie,  and  Edith's  heart  beat  quickly  when  she  saw 
it  was  her  husband,  and  thought  : 

"I  must  tell  him, — I  am  able  to  bear  it  now." 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE.  359 

He  knew  she  was  awake,  but  waited  for  her  to  speak,  trem- 
bling in  every  joint  as  he  wondered  how  he  should  begin  to  say 
that  which  he  was  there  to  say,  and  wondering,  too,  how  she 
would  receive  it.  He  had  the  little  daisy  on  the  table  near 
him,  and  when  she  stirred  he  took  it  in  his  hand  and  fancied  that 
it  had  grown  to  be  the  size  of  the  magnolia  blossoms  he  saw 
once  in  the  gardens  at  the  South.  His  mind  was  surely  getting 
disordered,  when  Edith  spoke  and  said  : 

"  Howard,  is  that  you  ?     Are  you  watching  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Edith  ;  "  and  he  drew  his  chair  closer  to  her,  while  she 
went  on  : 

"  Howard,  do  you  love  me,  really,  truly  love  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  really,  truly  love  you.  Why  do  you 
ask  me,  Edith  ?  " 

"  Because,  Howard,  because  I, — I, — wanted  to  be  sure. 
I've, — there  is  something  I  must ;  oh,  Howard,  you  do, — love 
me, — you  do." 

It  was  a  piteous  cry,  and  had  she  been  convicted  of  murder 
Colonel  Schuyler  would  have  stood  by  her  with  that  sound  in 
his  ears.  She  was  going  to  tell  him,  instead  of  his  telling  her  ! 
He  was  sure  of  it,  and  in  his  anxiety  to  know  how  she  would 
begin,  he  resolved  not  to  help  her  at  first,  but  hear  what  she 
had  to  say.  For  a  moment  she  lay  very  still,  with  her  hands 
locked  tightly  together,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  praying,  for  he 
caught  the  words  "  Help  me,"  as  they  came  from  her  white 
lips.  Ami  heaven  did  help  her,  and  the  iron  fingers  were  held 
back  and  her  respiration  was  unimpeded,  save  by  strong  emotion 
when  she  at  last  began  : 

"  Howard,  do  you  remember  the  day  when  we  were  married, 
and  I  fainted  in  my  dressing-room  before  going  to  the  train  ?  " 

It  was  coining  now,  sure,  and  he  replied  : 

"Yes,  Edith,  I  remember  it;  your  mother  said  it  was  in 
some  way  connected  with  that  affaire  du  ccsitr." 

"  Yes,  Howard,  it  was.  Hold  my  hand,  please,  and  hold  it 
tight  ;  till  you  feel  your  love  for  me  going  away." 

He  too4  her  hand  and  held  it  fast,  while  she  continued  : 

"  And  do  you  remember  the  little  inn,  and  the  pleasant  night, 


360  HUSBAND  AND    WIFE. 

and  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  in  the  yard  and  the  fresh  hay  on 
the  lawn,  and  you  sitting  on  the  balcony  when  I  came  to  tell 
you  something,  which  you  refused  to  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Edith,  I  remember  it.  Does  one  forget  his  wedding 
day  so  easily  that  I  should  forget  that,"  he  said ;  and  Edith 
went  on  : 

"  You  asked  me  to  call  you  Howard,  and  I  said,  wait  till  I 
have  told  you  what  might  make  a  difference,  but  you  would  not 
listen.  You  were  satisfied,  you  said,  and  if  there  was  anything 
more  you  did  not  wish  to  hear  it,  and  you  promised  that  what- 
ever came  in  the  future  you  would  have  faith  in  me  and  believe 
I  meant  to  do  right.  Howard,  there  was  something  more,  a  ter- 
rible something,  and  I  must  tell  it  to  you  now,  but  draw  the 
curtain,  please  ;  shut  out  the  moonlight  and  turn  off  the  gas. 
I'd  rather  be  in  the  dark,  and  not  see  your  face,  when  your  love 
begins  to  turn  to  hate." 

It  would  be  cruel  to  let  her  go  further.  He  had  heard 
enough  to  satisfy  him  that  a  full  confession  was  to  be  made,  and 
without  dropping  the  curtain  or  turning  the  gas  lower  he  leaned 
over  her,  and  said  : 

"  One  question,  Edith,  please ;  do  you  love  me  now  better 
than  you  did  on  our  wedding  day  ?  Is  there  no  regret  in  your 
heart  for  that  early  lover  ?  Tell  me  truly,  Edith." 

"  No,  not  the  way  you  mean.  Regret  there  is,  it  is  true,  but 
not  that  way.  The  love  I  had  for  him  has  been  overshadow- 
ed by  a  later  and  mightier  love;  and,  I  can  truly  say,  few 
wives  have  ever  loved  their  husbands  as  I  love  you,  and  that 
makes  it  so  hard  to  tell  you  now  when  I  want  your  love  so 
much.  Oh,  Howard,  just  once,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  happiness 
we  have  had  together,  kiss  me  and  hold  me  in  your  arms  as  you 
used  to  do.  You'll  never  hold  me  so  again,  but  this  once  do 
not  refuse."- 

He  wound  his  arms  around  her  and  pressed  her  closely  to 
him,  and  kissed  her  brow  and  lips,  and  she  felt  his  tears  upon 
her  face  when  at  last  he  released  her  and  put  her  gently  back 
upon  the  pillow. 

"Thank  you,  Howard.     I'll  never  ask  you  again,"  she  said, 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE.  3^1 

for  she  believed  it  their  farewell ;  but  he  knew  it  was  not,  and 
when  she  was  recovered  a  little  he  summoned  all  his  energies, 
and  said : 

"  Edith,  you  seem  to  be  afraid  that  what  you  have  to  tell  me 
will  make  me  love  you  less.  I  promise  you  that  it  shall  not, 
and  in  token  of  that  promise  I  have  brought  you  this  daisy 
which  I  found  blossoming  under  the  snow  on  Abelard's  grave, 
as  if  it  were  a  message  from  him  to  mediate  between  us." 

He  spoke  slowly  and  held  up  the  little  white  blossom  before 
the  eyes  which  looked  at  it  and  him  so  wonderingly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  Edith  asked,  faintly,  and  he  re- 
plied : 

"  I  mean  that  you  have  no  need  to  tell  the  story,  for  I  know 
it  all  !  " 

There  was  a  sudden  gasping  for  breath,  a  throwing  back  of 
the  bedclothes  as  if  their  weight  oppressed  her,  and  then  Edith 
asked  : 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  you  were  once  Heloise  Fordham,  and  lived  in 
the  collage  by  the  bridge,  and  were  the  wife  of  Abelard  Lyle, 
and  had  a  little  daughter  born  in  London,  whom  your  mother 
carried  away  when  you  were  insensible,  and  that  you  wrote  all 
this  in  a  letter  to  me  before  we  were  married,  and  supposed  I 
got  that  letter  until  our  wedding  day,  when  you  learned  how  we 
had  both  been  deceived,  and  you  tried  so  hard  to  tell  me.  You 
see  I  do  know  it  all,"  he  continued.  "I  accidentally  found 
your  letter  in  the  pocket  where  you  put  it  with  Arthur's  whistle. 
It  was  directed  to  me  and  I  read  it,  and  in  my  first  surprise 
and  bewilderment  went  away  to  be  alone  and  think  it  out.  I 
did  think  it  out,  and  exonerated  you  entirely,  and  have  come 
back  to  tell  you  so  and  assure  you  of  my  continued  love  and 
respect.  Poor  darling,  how  much  you  must  have  suffered,  but 
it  is  all  over  now.  Your  secret  is  known  to  me,  and  that  is  all 
that  is  necessary.  It  shall  die " 

He  stopped  short,  struck  by  the  look  of  pain  and  anguish  on 
Edith's  face,  and  the  low  moan  which  escaped  her  as  she  drew 
herself  away  from  him  to  the  far  side  of  the  bed.  He  did  not 
16 


362  HUSBAND   AND    WIFE. 

know  then  that  her  child  still  lived;  he  could  not,  for  it  was 
not  thus  written  in  her  letter,  and  throwing  up  her  hands,  she 
cried  : 

"  Oh,  Howard,  Howard,  you  do  not  know  the  whole,  neither 
did  i  till  mother  came  and  told  me.  She  went  to  the  hospital 
after  baby,  as  I  said  in  my  letter,  and  when  she  came  back  she 
told  me  baby  was  dead,  and  I  believed  her,  nor  ever  had 
another  thought  until  the  night  I  was  with  her  and  you  found 
me  fainting  at  her  feet.  She  could  not  die  with  that  lie  on  her 
soul,  and  she  told  me  the  truth  at  last.  Baby  was  not  dead. 
She  was  adopted, — taken  by  some  poor  woman  who  lived  in 
Dorset  Street, — the  number  is  in  that  letter  or  on  the  envelope 
somewhere,  and  the  name  Stover.  Howard,  my  daughter  is 
alive,  and  now  you  know  the  whole." 

He  did  not  speak,  though  he  shivered  from  head  to  foot  as 
there  came  over  him  a  dim  foreshadowing  of  what  Edith  meant 
to  do  and  what  he  must  not  prevent  her  doing.  He  saw  the 
right  as  clearly  as  she  did,  and  knew  that  were  he  in  her  place 
he  should  do  the  same ;  but  the  flesh  was  very  weak,  and  he 
staggered,  and  grew  faint  and  sick  as  he  thought  of  letting  the 
whole  world  know  who  his  Edith  was,  and  how  he  had  been 
deceived.  If  the  child  was  found  and  acknowledged  all  this 
must  be,  unless  indeed  they  both  might  think  it  best  to  keep  it 
still  a  secret.  They  could  care  for  the  girl  just  the  same,  adopt 
her,  perhaps,  and  never  let  her  nor  any  one  know  just  what  she 
was  to  them.  Edith  certainly  would  concede  so  much  to  his 
feelings.  She  would  not  thrust  this  great  humiliation  upon  him 
in  the  face  of  all  the  world.  And  if  they  never  found  the  girl, — 
but  he  dared  not  allow  himself  to  consider  that  possibility  for  a 
moment.  Something  told  him  they  would  find  her,  and  he 
caught  himself  wondering  how  she  looked,  if  she  was  at  all  like 
her  mother;  or  had  she  lived  so  long  with  the  people  in  Dorset 
Street  that  every  vestige  of  grace  and  beauty  and  refinement 
had  been  destroyed,  and  she  was  like  her  aunt,  Jenny  Nesbit, 
in  far-off  Alnwick,  with  her  bare  arms  and  dreadful  slang.  How 
he  dreaded  her,  and  how  his  heart  beat  with  shame  at  the 
thought  of  bringing  her  there  as  an  associate  for  his  wife  and 


HUSBAND  AND    WIFE.  363 

Gertie  !  Oh,  if  she  could  prove  to  be  like  Gertie,  he  thought ; 
but  she  would  not,  and  never  in  all  his  life  had  he  shrunk  from 
a  living  thing  as  he  shrunk  from  that  unknown  step-daughter  of 
whose  existence  he  had  never  dreamed  until  within  the  last  few 
minutes. 

"  Howard  ! "  Edith  said  at  last,  but  he  did  not  answer. 
"  Howard,"  she  said  again,  "  now  that  you  know  the  whole 
you  will  love  me  still  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Edith,"  he  said  ;  and  she  continued,  "  And  you  will  help 
me  find  her  just  as  soon  as  I  am  able  to  cross  the  sea.  Will 
it  be  in  a  week,  do  you  think,  or  two  ?  I  am  a  great  deal  better 
than  I  was  yesterday,  and  now  that  you  know  it  I  shall  get  well 
so  fast.  Do  you  think  we  can  start  in  a  week  ?  " 

"  No,  Edith,  I  know  you  cannot.  A  sea  voyage  in  the 
winter  is  always  rough,  and  you  could  not  bear  it  yet,"  was  his 
reply,  and  Edith  assented,  and  thought  how  hard  she  would  try 
to  get  well  so  as  to  go  on  that  strange  errand  of  hunting  up  a 
child  lost  almost  nineteen  years. 

Anon  there  crept  into  her  mind  a  suspicion  of  what  it  would 
be  to  her  husband  to  have  the  story  known,  and  she  said  to 
him  pityingly : 

"  Howard,  I  am  sorry  for  you.  It  will  be  so  hard  for  you  to 
have  the  people  know." 

"Yes,  Edith,  very  hard  at  first ;  but  you  surely  need  not  say 
anything  until  you  ktiovv  whether  you  find  her,"  The  colonel  re- 
plied, and  Edith  acquiesced,  and  longed  for  the  time  when  she 
should  be  able  to  endure  the  excitement  and  fatigue  of  the  voy- 
age and  the  search,  and  the  finding  perhaps  of  the  object 
sought. 

She  was  very  tired  and  did  not  talk  any  more  that  night,  but 
fell  into  a  quiet  sleep,  while  her  husband  sat  by  her,  feeling  as 
if  he  would  never  sleep  again,  or  know  a  moment's  gladness. 
How  old  and  tired  and  worn  he  looked  the  next  day,  and  how 
he  stooped  in  walking,  as  if  the  burden  were  greater  than  he 
could  bear.  Sometimes  he  thought  it  was,  and  once  the  tempter 
whispered  that  the  cold  river  just  in  sight  from  his  window 
would  be  a  better  place  than  his  beautiful  home  after  all  was 


364  THE   SEARCH  IN  LOXDOtf. 

known.  But  Col.  Schuyler  was  too  brave  a  man  to  die  a  sqicidal 
death  in  order  to  escape  a  trouble.  "  Better  live  and  face  it," 
he  thought,  and  then  began  to  feel  a  restless  impatience  to  have 
the  matter  settled,  to  know  the  worst  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
he  was  almost  as  glad  as  Edith  when  she  was  pronounced  able 
to  undertake  the  voyage.  Why  they  were  going  to  England  in 
the  winter  they  did  not  say,  and  we  naturally  supposed  it  might 
be  to  benefit  Edith  and  pay  a  visit  to  Glenthorpe,  where  Emma 
w?.s  so  happy.  Norah  was  not  going  ;  Edith  could  get  a  maid 
across  the  water,  she  said,  and  she  preferred  leaving  Norah  to 
look  after  little  Arthur.  To  Gertie,  however,  the  principal  care 
of  the  child  was  given,  and  she  promised  to  be  faithful  to  her 
trust,  and  care  for  the  little  boy  as  if  he  were  her  brother. 

And  so  one  day  in  January,  when  the  Oceanic  sailed  out  of  the 
harbor  of  New  York,  Edith  was  in  the  ship  going  blindfolded 
to  seek  the  very  blessing  which,  all  unknown,  she  left  behind. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

THE    SEARCH    IN    LONDON. 

jHEY  went  first  to  the St.  Hospital,  where  officers 

and  nurses  and  matron  had  all  been  changed  since 
the  rnght  when  the  child  Heloise  was  left  at  the 
door.  But  the  books  remained,  and  after  a  long  time  they 
found  the  one  bearing  date  nineteen  years  back.  Oh,  how 
eagerly  Edith  turned  the  worn,  yellow  leaves  till  she  came  to 
the  date  she  remembered  so  well. 

"January  — ,  18 — .  Was  received  into  the  house  a  female 
child,  found  in  a  basket  on  the  doorstep  with  the  name  Heloise 
pinned  upon  its  dress." 

That  was  the  one,  and  Edith's  voice  trembled  so  much  that 
she  could  not  speak  distinctly,  as  she  asked  of  the  person  in  at- 
tendance : 

"  Where  is  this  child  now  ?  Who  took  her  from  here  ?— and 
when  ?  " 


THE   SEARCH  IN  LONDON.  365 

Mrs.  Simmons,  the  matron,  could  not  tell.  She  had  herself 
been  there  little  more  than  a  year,  but  a  careful  searching  of 
the  books  brought  to  light  the  fact  that  not  long  after  the  night 
when  the  baby  Heloise  was  found  on  the  steps,  it  had  been 
taken  away  by  a  Mrs.  Stover,  whose  daughter  Aune  was  a  nurse 
in  the  Hospital  at  the  time,  and  who  lived  at  No.  —  Dorset 
Street.  This  agreed  with  the  story  as  told  by  Mrs.  Barrett,  and 
thus  far  all  seemed  perfectly  plain  and  easy  to  the  excited 
woman,  whom  Colonel  Schuyler  followed  mechanically  where- 
soever she  went.  She  was  taking  the  lead,  not  he,  but  he  sub- 
mitted with  a  good  grace,  .and  went  without  a  word  to  No  — 
Dorset  Street.  It  was  up  two  flights  of  broken,  creaking,  dirty 
stairs,  and  Edith  shuddered  as  she  thought  how  the  feet  of  her 
own  child  had  probably  been  up  and  down  this  dark  stairway, 
while  she,  the  mother,  had  lived  in  luxury  and  ease. 

No.  —  was  a  dirty,  wretched  apartment,  reeking  with  filth, 
swarming  with  children,  and  smelling  of  onions  and  boiled  cab- 
bage, and  that  odor  peculiar  to  rooms  where  the  people  sleep  and 
cook  and  eat  and  live,  and  seldom  wash  themselves.  The  fam- 
ily were  Germans,  who  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English,  and 
stared  wonderingly  at  the  beautiful  lady,  who  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing herself  understood.  But  she  might  as  well  have  talked  to 
blocks  of  wood  for  aught  they  knew  of  any  tenants  there  before 
them.  She  managed,  however,  to  make  out  that  on  the  floor 
above  was  an  old  woman,  who  had  occupied  the  same  room  for 
many  years,  and  to  her  Edith  went  next,  feeling  when  she  stood 
in  the  neat,  homelike,  though  humble  apartment  of  Mrs.  Myers 
as  if  she  had  stepped  into  paradise.  Mrs.  Myers  was  very  old, 
and  had  lived  there  thirty  years,  and  remembered  the  Stovers, 
who  occupied  the  floor  below. 

"  Tidy,  clever  people,  and  not  at  all  like  the'orrid  Dutch  cat- 
tle there  now,"  she  said.  "There  was  old  Marm  Stover,  and 
her  two  gals  Hanny  and  Mary.  Han  worked  in  some  'ors- 
pital,  and  Mary  for  some  grand  lady  in  the  country." 

"  Was  there  ever  a  child  living  with  them, — a  little  girl  with 
blue  eyes  and  golden  hair?"  Edith  asked. 

And  the  woman  replied : 


366  THE  SEARCH  IN  LONDON. 

"  There  was,  mem,  and  a  deal  of  gossip  it  made  about  the 
girls,  though  folks  mostly  laid  it  to  Han,  but  I  never  b'lieved  a 
word  on't.  It  was  took  from  the  'orspital,  they  said,  and  had  a 
curis  name, — Eloise, — and  Mary  claimed  it  as  'ern  ;  and  when 
old  Maim  Stover  died  with  the  cholera,  Mary,  who  was  out  to 
service,  took  the  child  away,  and  I've  never  seen  her  sense,  or 
'earn  tell  of  her.  Was  the  child  anything  to  you,  mem  ?  " 

"  Yes,  everything, — it  was  mine,"  Edith  said,  impetuously, 
while  her  husband,  who  did  not  care  to  have  her  quite  so  out- 
spoken, even  to  this  old  woman,  said,  as  he  took  her  hand  to 
lead  her  away  : 

"Yes,  yes,— thank  you,  Mrs.  Myers;  this  lady  has  been  sick, 
and  we, — yes,  we  are  both  anxious  to  find  some  trace  of  the 
child  lost  so  long  ago  :  but  I  think  it  doubtful  if  we  do, — yes, 
very  doubtful.  Come,  Edith,  we  may  as  well  go." 

But  Edith  did  not  move.  She  must  know  something  more, 
and  she  said  : 

"  Have  you  no  idea  where  this  Mary  Stover  lived  ?  Had  she 
no  friends  who  could  tell  me  about  her  ?  " 

"None  as  I  knows  on.  I  ain't  seen  or  'earn  of  her  better'n 
eighteen  year.  Mebbe  the  perlice  could  worrit  her  out  for  you." 

Edith  had  not  thought  of  that,  and  hurried  her  husband  into 
the  street,  and  insisted  upon  going  at  once  to  the  head  of  the 
police. 

But  the  colonel  demurred.  If  they  could  proceed  quietly,  he 
would  rather  do  so,  he  said,  and  they  would  not  call  in  the  aid 
of  the  police  until  they  had  exhausted  every  means  in  their 
power. 

And  they  did  exhaust  every  means ;  they  inquired  every- 
where, and  hunted  up  every  family  of  Stovers  in  the  city,  and  went 
to  the  hospital  again,  and  went  to  Mrs.  Myers  to  see  if  she 
could  not  think  of  something  forgotten  when  they  were  there 
before.  But  all  was  of  no  avail.  Nobody  had  ever  heard  of 
Mary  Stover,  and  Edith's  heart  was  heavy  as  lead  when  at  last 
the  case  was  given  to  the  police,  who  had  little  hope  of  suc- 
cess. 

Worn  out,  disappointed,  and  discouraged,  Edith  took  her  bed 


THE  SEARCH  IN  LONDON.  367 

at  the  hotel  where  they  were  stopping,  while  the  colonel,  who 
was  not  so  very  much  aggrieved  at  the  failure  of  the  search, 
thought  to  please  and  interest  her  by  making  some  inquiries  with 
regard  to  Gertie  Westbrooke,  about  whose  antecedents  there 
was  so  much  doubt  an'd  mystery.  To  trace  her  history  seemed 
far  easier  than  to  trace  the  mythical  Mary  Stover,  and  he  went 
first  to  the  company  where  her  annuity  was  payable.  In  an- 
swer to  his  inquiries  as  to  whether  they  could  give  him  any  in- 
formation with  regard  to  the  family,  he  was  told  that  quite  re- 
cently a  Mrs.  William  Westbrooke  had  done  some  business 
with  them  in  the  way  of  a  deposit.  She  was  a  widow,  they  said, 
and  had  come  from  Florence,  where  she  had  lived  for  many 
years.  It  was  the  same  name,  possibly  the  same  family, — he 
could  inquire  ;  they  could  give  him  the  lady's  address. 

This  he  reported  to  Edith,  who  roused  herself  to  some  inter- 
est in  the  matter  after  being  assured  that  no  parent  or  guar- 
dian could  take  Gertie  from  them  after  all  these  years. 

"  If  I  thought  they  could  I  would  not  try  to  find  them,  for  I 
can't  give  Gertie  up,"  she  said  ;  while  her  husband  felt  that  he 
would  be  almost  as  loath  to  part  with  Gertie  as  Edith  herself. 

And  so  with  more  real  interest  now  than  he  had  felt  when 
searching  for  Mary  Stover,  he  drove  with  Edith  one  day  to  the 
handsome  lodgings  occupied  by  Mrs.  William  Westbrooke,  re- 
cently from  Florence.  She  was  a  little,  pale,  sandy-haired  wo- 
man, of  forty  or  thereabouts,  very  much  dressed,  and  having  in 
her  manner  something  haughty  and  supercilious  as  she  received 
the  strangers,  and,  without  requesting  them  to  be  seated,  asked 
what  she  could  do  for  them. 

It  was  the  colonel  who  did  the  talking  this  time,  while  Edith 
listened  in  a  preoccupied  kind  of  way,  wrhich,  nevertheless,  did 
not  prevent  her  from  hearing  all  that  was  said. 

"  We  are  Americans,"  the  colonel  began,  "  and  we  have  a 
young  girl  in  our  family  of  whose  antecedents  we  would  learn 
something.  As  you  have  the  same  name,  and  bank  at  the  same 
firm  where  her  annuity  of  forty  pounds  a  year  is  paid,  it  occurred 
to  me  to  inquire  if  you  have  ever  heard  of  a  girl  called  Gertie} 
or  Gertrude  Westbrooke,  nineteen  or  twent}7  years  old." 


368  THE   SEARCH  IN  LONDON. 

"  Gertie  ! — Gertrude  !  "  Mrs.  Westbrooke  said.  "  I  did  know 
a  child  by  that  name  years  ago  ;  but  tell  me,  please,  how  she 
came  to  be  in  America  living  with  you  ?  " 

It  was  Edith  who  talked  now,  and  who  told  rapidly  all  she  knew 
of  Gertie  Westbrooke  and  her  so-called  mother,  Mrs.  Rogers. 

"  Is  it  the  same?  Do  you  think  it  the  same  ?"  she  asked  ; 
and  Mrs.  Westbrooke  replied  : 

"  I  think  it  the  same;  yes." 

"Who  is  she  then?  Are  you  her  step-mother  ?"  Edith  asked; 
and,  with  a  frown  on  her  wizened  little  face,  the  lady  replied : 

''  No,  she  is  nothing  to  me.  She  was  adopted  by  my  hus- 
band's first  wife  just  after  the  loss  of  her  baby,  and,  as  I  un- 
derstood, at  the  instigation  of  her  nurse,  who  must  have  been 
this  Mrs.  Rogers.  The  first  Mrs.  Westbrooke  was  greatly  at- 
tached to  the  child,  and  when  she  died  she  settled  upon  it  forty 
pounds  a  year,  and  gave  it  expressly  to  the  care  of  her  maid. 

"  About  a  year  after  her  death  Mr.  Westbrooke  married  me, 
and  took  me  to  his  home  in  London.  I  did  not  like  children, 
and  this  one  was  in  my  way,  and  as  my  husband  did  not  care 
for  it  either,  we  gave  it  at  last  to  the  nurse,  who  took  it  to  keep 
for  her  own.  My  first  child  was  born  soon  after,  and  the  next 
year  we  went  to  Florence,  where  my  husband  died,  and  where 
I  have  lived  until  within  the  last  few  months.  .Of  Gertie  I  have 
never  heard  since.  I  was  told  that  the  nurse,  Mary,  was  mar- 
ried and  living  comfortably  ;  but  from  what  you  say  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  young  lady  in  question  is  the  girl,  and  am  glad 
she  has  fallen  into  so  good  hands.  She  was  very  pretty,  with 
great  blue  eyes  and  bright  auburn  hair " 

"  What  was  the  name  of  the  nurse  ? "  Edith  asked,  and  the 
lady  replied  :  , 

"  I  don't  remember  whom  she  married,  but  dare  say  it  was 
Rogers.  My  housekeeper  will  know  ;  she  saw  her  married. 
Her  maiden  name  was  Stover, — Mary  Stover" 

"Mary  Stover  /"  and  Edith  started  to  her  feet  as  quickly  as 
if  a  heavy  blow  had  smitten  her.  "  Mary  Stover, — tell  me  if 
you  know  where  the  child  came  from  at  first,  who  were  her 
parents,  and  how  came  Mrs.  Westbrooke  by  her  ?  " 


THE  SEARCH  IN  LONDON.          369 

"  I  do  not  know  as  she  had  any  parents,  unless  it  were  Mary 
Stover  herself.  I  always  suspected  her  of  being  the  real  mother, 
she  was  so  attached  to  the  child  and  so  mysterious  about  it. 
She  brought  it  to  Mrs.  Westbrooke  from  some  Foundling  Hos- 
pital, I  believe,  where  her  sister  Anne  was  nurse." 

"  Oh,  Gertie,  Gertie,  thank  Heaven,"  Edith  gasped,  and  the 
next  moment  she  lay  at  her  husband's  feet  with  a  face  as  white 
and  rigid  and  still  as  are  the  faces  of  the  dead! 

There  was  great  excitement  then  in  Mrs.  Westbrooke's  rooms, 
ringing  of  bells,  gathering  of  servants,  and  hurrying  for  physi- 
cians, three  of  whom  came  together  and  concurred  in  pronounc- 
ing it  nothing  worse  than  a  fainting  fit,  from  which  the  lady 
would  soon  recover. 

"  Shall  I  order  a  room  for  her  here  ?  "  Mrs.  Westbrooke  asked, 
anxious  to  relieve  herself  as  soon  as  possible  from  her  rather 
troublesome  guests. 

The  colonel,  who  knew  Edith  would  be  happier  in  their  own 
apartments  at  the  hotel,  declined  Mrs.  Westbrooke's  offer,  and 
as  soon  as  consciousness  returned  took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  and, 
carrying  her  to  the  carriage  waiting  for  them,  was  driven  back 
to  his  hotel,  where  he  laid  her  upon  the  couch,  and  then  sat 
down  beside  her,  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

For  a  moment,  however,  she  could  not,  and  she  lay  perfectly 
still  with  the  light  of  a  great  and  unutterable  happiness  shining 
in  her  eyes  and  illuminating  every  feature. 

"Edith,  darling,  you  are  very  glad  ?"  the  colonel  asked  at 
last. 

"Yes,  Howard,  so  glad,  oh,  so  glad,"  Edith  replied.  "  God 
has  been  so  good  to  me,  so  good  that  I  never  can  thank  Him 
enough.  That  Gertie  should  be  my  daughter  and  living  with 
me  all  the  time ;  oh,  God,  I  do  thank  Thee,  I  do.  Howard, 
you  are  glad  too,  glad  for  Gertie  ?  " 

She  questioned  him  eagerly,  and  he  answered  her  without  the 
slightest  hesitancy : 

"  Yes,  Edith,  very  glad." 

And  he  was  glad,  and  when,  as  he  was  leaving  Mrs.  West- 
brooke,  that  lady  said  to  him,  "  Pardon  me,  if  I  seem  curious, 


370  THE  SEARCH  IN  LONDON. 

but  what  is  the  girl  Gertie  to  this  lady?"  he  promptly  answer- 
ed :  "  Gertie  is  our  daughter,"  and  with  that  little  pronoun  our 
he  adopted  Gertie  into  his  heart  and  love,  and  felt  that  she  was 
his  as  well  as  Edith's. 

"  Our  daughter  !  "  That  was  what  he  called  her  to  his  wife, 
who  clasped  her  arms  around  his  neck  in  token  that  she  appre- 
ciated this  last  great  kindness  of  his. 

Then  they  talked  together  of  the  beautiful  girl  whom  they 
had  come  so  far  to  seek,  when  all  the  time  she  was  a  part  of 
their  own  household,  and  as  they  talked  there  naturally  enough 
crept  into  Edith's  mind  the  shadow  of  a  fear,  lest,  after  all, 
there  might  be  some  mistake.  But  there  was  none  apparently, 
for  the  colonel  made  every  inquiry  possible  with  regard  to 
Mary  Rogers,  finding  beyond  a  doubt  that  she  was  Mary  Stover, 
and  that  her  sister  Anne  had  been  a  nurse  in Street  Hos- 
pital nineteen  years  before,  and  that  it  was  by  their  mother,  then 
living  in  Dorset  Street,  that  the  child  was  taken  when  it  left  the 
hospital.  There  could  be  no  doubt,  and  as  Edith  was  far  too 
weak  and  too  much  overcome  to  undertake  the  journey  home 
immediately,  the  colonel  decided  to  remain  a  week  or  two  in 
London,  and  wrote  at  once  to  Glenthorpe,  asking  Robert  to 
bring  Emma  to  them,  but  reserving  the  secret  of  Gertie's  birth 
until  they  came.  Then  he  wrote  to  Gertie  herself,  but  thought 
it  better  not  to  confide  the  whole  to  her  until  he  saw  her  face 
to  face.  So  he  merely  said  that  being  in  London  he  had 

thought  it  well  to  make  some  inquiries  at  the Bank,  and,  if 

possible,  discover  something  of  her  family. 

"And  dear  Gertie,"  he  wrote,  "you  will  be  no  less  aston- 
ished and  delighted  than  I  was  to  find  that  beyond  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt  you  are  our  oitm  daughter.  I  cannot  tell  you  all  on 
paper.  I  only  assure  you  that  it  is  true,  and  when  we  return  I 
will  explain  it  to  you.  Mrs.  Schuyler  is  not  very  well,  but  I 
hope  she  will  be  able  to  return  in  the  Cuba,  which  sails  in  t\vo 
\\.-rks.  With  love  and  a  kiss  for  little  Arthur,  who,  I  trust,  is 
well,  1  am, 

"  Your  affectionate  father,  H.  SCHUYLER." 


THE  SEARCH  IN  LONDON.  37' 

This  was  his  letter,  which  he  read  to  Edith,  who  said  :  "  But, 
Howard,  you  never  told  her  how  my  heart  is  aching  for  her,  or 
gave  her  my  love  or  anything." 

"  Never  mind,"  the  colonel  answered,  good-naturedly.  "You 
will  have  all  your  lifetime  to  tell  her  of  your  love." 

And  so  the  letter  which  would  tell  Gertie  so  much,  and  yet 
so  little,  was  sent,  and  two  days  after  Robert  Macpherson  ar- 
rived in  London,  bringing  with  him  Emma,  the  little  lady  of 
Glenthorpe,  who  was  perfectly  wild  over  her  husband  and  her 
beautiful  home  among  the  Highlands,  and  insisted  that  her 
father  should  go  there  if  only  for  a  few  days.  You  must  see 
what  a  good  mistress  I  make,  and  what  a  high-bred  lady  I  am 
to  the  people  who  just  worship  Robert,  and  I  do  believe  like 
him  all  the  more  because  his  mother  was  one  of  them.  I  begin 
to  believe  in  what  are  called  mesalliances  after  all. 

Now  was  the  time  to  tell  the  story  of  another  mesalliance^ 
and  the  colonel  told  it,  while  Robert  and  Emma  listened  breath- 
lessly, and  when  the  denouement  was  reached  the  latter  ex- 
claimed, joyfully  : 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  that  it  is  Gertie.  She  is  your  cousin, 
Robert,  your  own  cousin,  and  it  is  all  just  like  a  story.  Oh,  I 
am  so  glad  !  " 

She  evidently  did  not  think  it  so  dreadful  to  be  connected 
with  the  Lyles.  She  had  seen  the  white-haired,  sweet-faced 
old  woman  in  Alnvvick,  and  seen  Jenny  Nesbit,  too,  for  Robert 
had  taken  her  there  to  call,  and  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  the 
grandmother,  and  tried  to  pet  Godfrey  Schuyler,  now  a  big 
boy  in  jacket  and  trousers,  and  had  sickened  and  grown  hot 
and  cold  by  turns  at  the  vulgarity  of  Mrs.  Nesbit,  and  then  in 
the  splendor  and  eclat  of  her  home  at  Glenthorpe  had  forgotten 
them  all  and  remembered  only  that  she  was  Robert's  wife,  the 
great  lady  of  the  neighborhood  and  the  happiest  woman  living. 
Gertie  should  come  and  live  with  her,  she  said,  and  marry  a 
Scottish  Lord  ;  but  Edith  shook  her  head  ;  Gertie  was  hers. 
She  could  not  part  with  her,  and  her  heart  was  full  of  an  un- 
utterable yearning  to  behold  the  young  girl  again,  and  hear  her 
call  her  mother,  and  she  could  hardly  wait  for  the  day  when  the 


372  GERTIE. 

Cuba  sailed  at  last  from  the  harbor  of  Liverpool,  and  she  knew 
she  was  going  home  to  Gertie. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 

GERTIE. 

No.  30  30TH  STREET,  NEW  YORK,  February  18,  18 — . 
O  COLONEL   SCHUYLER  :     Your  son  Godfrey  is  very 
dangerously  ill  with  typhoid  fever.      Come  at  once. 
MRS.  SOPHIA  WILSON. 

This  was  the  telegram  received  at  Schuyler  Hill  one  morn- 
ing in  February,  and  read  by  Gertie  with  a  heart  throbbing  with 
fear  and  anxiety  for  the  young  man  dangerously  ill  with  typhoid 
fever,  and  only  strangers  to  care  for  him.  But  what  could  she 
do  ?  The  colonel  was  in  Europe,  Julia  was  in  Florida,  while 
she  had  little  Arthur  to  care  for,  and  even  if  she  had  not  she 
could  not  go  herself.  It  would  not  be  proper  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, and  the  colonel  would  not  like  it.  Something,  how- 
ever, must  be  done,  and  calling  Mrs.  Tiffe  she  read  the  tele- 
gram and  said  to  her  : 

"  You  must  go." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs.  Tiffe  should  take  the'next  train 
for  New  York,  which  passed  in  about  an  hour,  and  she  departed 
to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  for  her  journey,  just  as 
the  postman  came  bringing  a  letter  for  Gertie.  It  was  from 
Colonel  Schuyler,  and  Gertie  tore  it  open  and  read  what  it  con- 
tained with  emotions  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe.  At 
first  she  was  stunned  and  bewildered,  and  thought  it  must  be 
somebody  else,  some  other  Gertie  he  meant. 

"  It  is  not  I,  surely ;  it  cannot  be  I,  who  am  his  daughter" 
she  whispered  to  herself,  and  then  she  read  again  : 

"Beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  you  are  our  own  daughter." 

It  was  there  in  black  and  white,  and  it  was  Colonel  Schuy- 
ler1 s  signature,  and  he  signed  himself  her  father.  Then  the 


GERTIE.  373 

room  turned  dark  to  Gertie  ;  there  was  a  humming  in  her  ears,  and 
for  a  moment  she  halflost  her  consciousness,  but  soon  recover- 
ing she  read  the  letter  for  the  third  time,  whispering  to  herself : 

"  My  father, — his  child, — who  then  was  my  mother  ?  "  and  as 
she  said  it  her  face  flushed  with  shame  as  she  thought  what  she 
7imst  be  if  this  tale  were  true  and  Colonel  Schuyler  her  sire. 
She  never  dreamed  of  associating  Edith  with  the  matter  in  any 
way.  Only  Colonel  Schuyler  had  an  interest  in  her,  and  that 
of  such  a  nature  that  the  knowledge  of  it  brought  far  more  pain 
than  pleasure  to  one  as  pure  and  good  as  she. 

If  Colonel  Schuyler  were  her  father,  then  the  man  whom  she 
vaguely  remembered  in  the  home  near  London  could  have  been 
nothing  to  her,  and  for  this  she  was  not  especially  sorry.  But 
to  lose  the  gentlewoman  whom  she  had  been  taught  to  think 
her  mother,  was  terrible,  and  Gertie  rebelled  against  it.  She 
would  cling  to  the  memory  of  that  woman,  even  if  she  had 
sinned,  as  the  story  of  her  birth  would  imply.  And  this  was 
why  Mary  Rogers  had  always  been  so  reticent  with  regard  to 
her  antecedents,  why  she  had  spoken  with  so  much  certainty 
of  her  mother  as  a  lady,  and  said  so  little  of  her  father.  Pos- 
sibly Mary  had  not  known  who  her  father  was,  and  possibly 
the  man  whom  she  remembered  was  only  the  brother  or  father 
of  the  pale  woman  who  died,  and  that  would  account  for  his 
dislike  of  her.  These  and  similar  fancies  flitted  rapidly  through 
Gertie's  mind,  until  she  settled  it  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  man 
she  called  father,  and  who  she  thought  was  buried  in  Italy,  had 
been  her  mother's  near  relation,  and  not  her  father,  that  no 
marriage  rite  could  have  hallowed  her.  birth,  and  as  she  thought 
it  her  face  and  neck  and  hands  were  crimson,  and  she  longed 
for  some  place  in  which  to  hide  her  dishonored  head.  Then, 
swift  as  lightning,  another  thought  flashed  into  her  mind,  cutting 
like  a  knife  and  making  her  cringe  with  pain.  If  she  was  Col- 
onel Schuyler's  daughter,  even  in  an  unlawful  way,  then  God- 
frey was  her  brother,  and  alas,  she  did  not  want  him  that.  She 
could  never  be  his  wife,  she  knew  ;  but  it  was  sweet  to  know  he 
loved  her  as  he  would  never  love  another,  and  she  could  not  be 
his  sister. 


374  GERTIE. 

"  Oh,  Godfrey,  Godfrey  !  "  she  moaned  ;  "  this  is  the  hardest 
part  of  all.  I  can  forgive  my  mother,  feeling  sure  that  she  was 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  and  I  may  in  time  forgive 
your  father  and  mine ;  but  I  do  not  want  you  for  my  brother. 
Godfrey,  Godfrey,  I  never  loved  you  before  as  I  do  now,  when 
this  has  risen  up  to  separate  us  forever." 

Then  she  remembered  the  telegram,  and  starting  up  ex- 
claimed : 

"  If  1  am  his  sister  I  may  surely  go  to  him.  I  have  a  right, 
and  no  one  can  gainsay  it." 

She  was  in  Mrs.  Tiffe's  room  in  an  instant,  and  greatly  aston- 
ished that  good  woman  by  declaring  her  intention  of  going  her- 
self to  New  York  to  take  care  of  Godfrey/ 

"  You,  you  go  to  nurse  a  young  man  !  Are  you  crazy,  child  ?  " 
Mrs.  Tiffe  exclaimed. 

Gertie  did  not  know  whether  she  was  crazy  or  not ;  she  half 
believed  she  was,  but  on  one  point  she  was  decided.  She 
should  go  to  New  York,  $nd  she  put  on  her  cloak  and  furs  and 
hat,  and  bidding  Mrs.  Tiffe  take  good  care  of  Arthur,  and  send 
her  a  few  articles  of  wearing  apparel  by  the  next  day's  express, 
went  out  of  the  house  and  started  for  the  station  on  foot  before 
Mrs.  Tiffe  had  time  to  realize  fully  what  it  meant,  and  that  after 
all  the  trouble  of  packing  her  trunk  and  ordering  the  servants 
what  to  do  in  her  absence,  she  must  stay  at  home  and  let 
Gertie  go  in  her  place. 

"It  will  be  the  ruination  of  her,"  she  said,  "for  folks  will 
talk,"  and  nothing  but  the  fact  that  the  whistle  of  the  train  was 
just  then  heard  in  the  distance,  prevented  her  from  starting  in 
hot  pursuit.  "I  can't  get  there  now  with  the  swiftest  horse  in 
the  stable,"  she  reflected,  and  she  did  not  believe  Gertie  would 
be  in  time  either. 

lint  sin:  was,  for  when  she  too  heard  the  train  she  ran  like  a 
frightened  deer,  and  half-stumbled,  half-fell  upon  the  platform 
of  the  rear  car  just  as  it  was  beginning  to  move  from  the  station. 


IN  NEW  YORK.  375 

CHAPTER  LVII. 

IN   JSTEW   YORK. 

[ODFREY  was  very  sick,  and  had  been  for  some  days, 
though  it  was  not  until  the  morning  when  the  tele- 
gram was  forwarded  that  his  fever  assumed  the  typhoid 
form  and  danger  was  apprehended.  A  message  had  been 
sent  to  his  Aunt  Rossiter  when  he  first  became  ill,  but  she 
was  in  Washington  with  Miss  Creighton,  and  as  the  landlady 
knew  nothing  of  the  Calverts,  her  only  alternative  was  to  tele- 
graph to  Schuyler  Hill,  when  the  matter  became  alarming  and 
her  boarder  delirious.  Oh,  how  he  tossed  and  rolled  and 
raved  and  talked,  fancying  himself  on  the  sea,  and  twice  throw- 
ing himself  out  of  bed  because  that  was  the  proper  thing  to  do 
when  the  ship  gave  a  great  lurch  as  the  waves  broke  over  it. 
Then  he  was  sea-sick  and  tried  to  vomit,  and  wore  himself  out 
in  his  efforts,  and  screamed  to  a  fancied  Bob  in  the  upper  berth, 
to  know  how  he  was  coming  through.  Then  he  stormed  at 
Dan  for  bringing  him  sea-water  to  drink,  and  when  the  ship 
began  to  pitch  again  he  tried  to  stand  upon  his  head,  and  then 
sprang  back  upon  his  feet  to  preserve  his  equilibrium,  he  said 
to  the  scandalized  and  horrified  Mrs.  Wilson,  who  fled  from  him 
in  dismay  as  the  worst-behaved  sick  man  she  had  ever  seen. 
Then  as  the  vessel  -ceased  to  pitch  he  £rew  more  quiet,  and 
only  rolled  with  the  imaginary  ship,  and  talked  about  "La 
S&ur"  and  begged  his  landlady  to  bring  her  to  him,  and  prom- 
ised to  stop  rolling  if  she  would. 

Utterly  at  her  wits'  end  to  know  what  he  meant  by  La  Scettr, 
or  what  to  do  with  him,  Mrs.  Wilson  was  waiting  impatiently 
for  some  response  to  her  telegram,  when  the  bell  rang  and  a 
little,  white-faced  girl  stepped  into  the  hall  and  announced  her- 
self as  having  come  to  take  care  of  Mr.  Schuyler. 

"  You  take  care  of  him  ?  "  Mrs.  Wilson  exclaimed,  when  she 
had  recovered  from  her  first  astonishment  and  surprise.  "You 


376  IN  NEW  YORK. 

take  care  of  him  ?  It  is  impossible.  Why,  it  needs  a  strong 
man  to  manage  him  ;  he  is  just  awful  ;  he's  got  it  in  his  head 
that  he  is  sea-sick,  and  rolls  and  pitches  with  the  boat,  and  calls 
to  Bob  in  the  upper  berth,  and  insists  upon  my  bringing  him  la 
surr,  whatever  that  may  be " 

"  Yes,  that's  sister,  that's  French, — that's  I,"  Gertie  said.  "  I 
am  his  sister,  and  have  come  to  nurse  him.  His  father  is  in 
Europe,  his  eldest  sister  Julia  is  in  Florida,  the  next  one  is  in 
Scotland,  and  so  there  was  no  one  to  come  but  me.  Will  you 
take  me  to  him,  please  ?  " 

After  this  explanation  there  was  no  demurring  on  Mrs.  Wil- 
son's part.  If  that  young  girl  was  his  sister  she  had  a  right  to 
nurse  her  brother,  and  she  led  the  way  to  the  third  Moor,  j.-here 
in  the  room  looking  into  the  area  Godfrey  was  still  rolling  with 
the  ship,  and  occasionally  mimicking  and  calling  to  some  cats 
fighting  on  the  fence  in  the  yard  below.  These  cats  had  been 
the  bane  of  Godfrey's  life  even  before  he  was  sick.  Regularly 
every  night  they  came,  sometimes  two,  sometimes  three,  and 
sometimes  half-a-dozen,  and  made  the  ^neighborhood  hideous 
with  their  music. 

Godfrey  had  thrown  his  boot-jack  at  them,  and  his  poker  and 
soap-dish  and  bits  of  coal,  and  when  ail  these  failed  he  had  tried 
the  effect  of  fire-crackers  and  frightened  the  people  opposite, 
who  thought  him  a  madman  trying  to  fire  the  house  !  And  still 
the  cats  fought  on,  and  since  Godfrey's  illness  they  had  been 
terrible,  and  he  was  up  on  his  elbow  "  sca-ating  "  to  them,  \\hen 
the  door  opened  and  Gertie  was  ushered  in.  He  knew  her, 
and  forgetting  the  cats  and  the  ship,  and  Bob  in  the  upper  berth, 
he  hailed  her  advent  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

"Za  Scenr^  La  Sceur"  he  cried,  "you've  come, — you've 
come  at  last,  and  now  you'll  stop  that  infernal  noise  and  make 
the  ship  stand  still.  I'm  pounded  nearly  to  a  jelly  with  all  this 
rolling  and  pitching." 

He  held  his  arms  toward  her,  and  she  went  to  him  and  laid 
her  cool  hands  on  his  burning  brow,  and  pushed  back  his  tan- 
gled curls,  but  did  not  kiss  him.  She  could  not  bring  herself 
to  do  that,  even  if  she  were  his  sister,  but  she  held  his  hot  hands 


IN  NEW  YORK.  377 

in  hers  and  tried  to  soothe  and  quiet  him,  and  told  him  she 
would  kill  the  cats  and  make  the  ship  stand  still,  and  talked  to 
him  till  he  grew  quiet  and  fell  away  to  sleep. 

When  the  doctor  came,  he  was  told  that  Mr.  Schuyler's  sister 
was  there,  and  Gertie  blushed  and  felt  herself  a  guilty  thing 
when  he  addressed  her  as  Miss  Schuyler,  and  gave  directions 
about  the  medicines  she  was  to  give,  and  asked  if  there  was  no 
older  person  to  come  in  her  place. 

"  None  but  the  housekeeper,  and  Godfrey  prefers  me,"  she 
said,  while  Godfrey,  who  was  listening,  chimed  in  : 

"  That's  so.  I'd  rather  have  Gertie  than  the  whole  world 
besides.  She's  a  trump, — she's  a  brick, — she's  a " 

"  Hush,  Godfrey,  if  you  want  me  to  stay  you  must  not  talk," 
Gertie  said,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  lips. 

He  kissed  it,  of  course,  and  when  she  snatched  it  away,  told 
her  to  put  it  back  again  if  she  did  not  want  him  to  roll  out  of 
bed  with  the  ship,  which  was  lurching  awfully  !  And  she  put 
it  back  and  held  it  there  so  tight  that  he  could  neither  kiss  it 
nor  speak,  nor  scarcely  breathe. 

"  Godfrey,"  she  said  a  little  sternly,  when  the  doctor  had  gone 
out,  "if  you  do  not  behave  and  stop  talking  and  trying'to  kiss 
me,  and  if  you  attempt  to  roll  out  of  bed,  or  get  up,  no  matter 
how  much  the  ship  rocks,  I  will  not  stay  with  you  a  moment, 
but  go  home  in  the  next  train." 

This  had  the  desired  effect  and  brought  forth  earnest  protes- 
tations of  intended  good  behavior  from  Godfrey,  who  promised 
not  to  move  but  "  to  stand  to  his  guns,"  even  if  the  ship  should 
turn  a  complete  somersault,  which  he  guessed  it  would,  judging 
from  the  way  it  was  reeling  and  tossing  now. 

After  that  he  was  comparatively  quiet,  or  if  he  became  very 
restless  and  showed  a  disposition  to  repeat  his  tumbling  exploits 
when  the  sea  was  badly  in  his  head,  a  word  from  Gertie  con- 
trolled him  and  kept  him  on  his  pillow.  But  his  fever  ran 
higher  and  higher  every  day,  and  his  pulse  beat  faster  and  faster 
as  the  imaginary  ship  went  plunging,  through  the  waves  which 
threatened  to  engulf  it. 

Gertie  had  told  him  she  was  his  sister,  that  his  father  had 


378  IN  NEW  YORK. 

written  so  from  London,  and  once  when  he  seemed  something 
like  himself  she  read  the  letter  to  him,  but  he  repelled  the  idea 
with  scorn.  She  was  not  his  sister.  He  did  not  want  any  more 
sisters.  She  was  Gertie, — his  Gertie, — his  in  spite  of  every- 
body, he  said,  and  he  seemed  to  know  just  when  she  was  with 
him,  even  if  he  did  not  see  her,  and  when  she  left  the  room  he 
would  moan  and  rave  and  talk  until  she  came  back,  and  by  a 
touch  of  her  hand  or  a  single  word  made  him  quiet  again. 

And  so  the  days  went  on,  and  the  fever  increased,  and  the 
vessel  rocked  worse  and  worse,  and  Godfrey's  brain  grew  more 
and  more  affected,  and  Gertie's  heart  was  very  sore  with  the 
fear  that  he  would  die.  "  Brother  "  she  called  him  now  when 
she  spoke  to  him,  and  he  was  no  longer  furious  as  he  had  been 
at  that  name  coming  from  her  lips.  He  did  not  seem  to  know 
what  she  said,  only  that  she  was  with  him, — that  it  was  her  hand 
which  gave  the  medicine  he  would  take  from  no  one  else, — her 
hand  which  bathed  his  temples  and  kept  him  firmly  in  his  place 
when  the  sea  was  doing  its  worst, — her  hand  which  rescued  his 
poor,  aching  head  from  the  stewardess,  who  was  boiling  water 
in  it  to  make  him  some  beef-tea.  Oh,  what  dreadful  fancies  he 
had, — fancies  which  were  wearing  him  out  so  fast,  and  which 
nobody  could  manage  but  Gertie.  And  her  strength  was  giving 
way,  and  the  roses  were  fading  from  her  cheek,  when  one  morn- 
ing, about  ten  days  after  her  arrival  in  New  York,  a  servant 
knocked  at  the  door  and  ushered  in  Miss  Rossiter. 

She  had  returned  from  Washington  the  night  before,  and,  find- 
ing the  note  which  had  been  sent  to  her  when  Godfrey  became 
so  ill,  had  come  immediately  after  breakfast  to  see  how  he  was. 
With  a  feeling  that  it  would  not  be  proper  for  her  to  go  into  his 
sick  room,  Alice,  who  was  stopping  up  town,  remained  at  home, 
bidding  Miss  Rossiter  give  her  love  to  Godfrey,  and  tell  him  she 
would  come  if  he  wished  to  see  her. 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  out  marketing  when  Miss  Rossiter  came, 
and  whatever  information  that  lady  received  concerning  her 
nephew,  she  had  from  the  servant  who  escorted  her  to  his 
room. 

"  His  sister  with  him  !     I  did  not  know  she  had  returned," 


IN  NEW  YORK:  379 

she  said,  in  some  surprise,  when  in  reply  to  the  question,  "Who 
takes  care  of  him  ?  "  the  servant  said  : 

"  His  sister,  ma'am.  She  has  been  here  more  than  a 
week." 

Miss  Rossiter  had  spent  a  day  in  Hampstead  the  previous  sum- 
mer, and  seen  Gertie  ;  but  she  had  no  thought  of  her  now,  and 
was  utterly  astonished  and  confounded,  as  she  entered  the  room, 
to  find  Gertie  Westbrooke  sitting  by  Godfrey,  who  was  sleep- 
ing from  the  effects  of  a  powerful  opiate  which  the  doctor  had 
administered  an  hour  or  so  before. 

At  the  sound  of  the  opening  door  she  looked  up  and  gave  a 
warning  "  Sh-hh  !  "  as  Miss  Rossiter  exclaimed,  loudly  : 

"  Gertie, — Gertie  Westbrooke  !  Why  are  you  here  calling 
yourself  his  sister  ?  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  What  does  it 
mean  ?  Tell  me  before  1  venture  to  stop  a  moment  in  the  same 
room  with  you  !  " 

And  the  highly  indignant  and  rigidly  virtuous  spinster  held 
back  her  clothes  lest  they  should  come  in  contact  with  the  gar- 
ments of  the  young  girl,  thus  outraging  every  rule  of  propriety 
if  not  of  decency. 

Alice,  who  had  been  and  in  some  sense  still  considered  her- 
self his  affknced  wife,  would  not  so  much  as  come  to  the  house 
unless  it  was  necessary,  while  even  s/ie,  a  matron  of  fifty  and 
more,  had  some  doubts  about  going  herself  into  the  room ;  and 
lo,  here  was  the  young  girl, — this  stranger, — sitting  by  him  with 
the  utmost  familiarity,  and  bidding  her  be  quiet  and  speak  lower 
lest  the  sick  man  should  awaken. 

Miss  Rossiter  was  greatly  shocked,  and,  as  her  first  question 
was  not  answered  except  by  a  look  of  innocent  wonder,  she  re- 
peated it  angrily  : 

"  Why  are  you  here,  passing  for  his  sister  ?  Don't  you  know 
your  good  name  will  be  ruined  forever  ?  " 

Only  an  hour  before  the  doctor  had  said  to  Gertie  : 

"There  is  but  one  chance  in  a  hundred  for  your  brother.  If 
he  can  be  made  to  sleep  and  be  kept  quiet,  he  may  recover, 
but  if  the  paroxysms  and  his  fancy  about  the  ship  return  he 
will  die.  Do  your  best  for  him." 


380  IN  NEW  YORK. 

In  dumb  despair  Gertie  listened  to  him  with  such  pain  in  her 
heart  as  sisters  never  feel. 

"  I'll  do  my  best,"  she  said,  and  her  white  lips  quivered,  but 
she  did  not  cry  as  she  took  her  seat  by  Godfrey  to  watch  him 
while  he  slept,  and  thought  what  life  would  be  to  her  without 
him.  "  Godfrey  dead,  Godfrey  dead,"  she  whispered,  softly. 
"  I  should  want  to  die,  too.  Oh,  Godfrey,  you  are  more  than 
my  brother,  more  than  my  brother." 

It  was  just  as  she  said  this  that  Miss  Rossiter  came  in,  and 
the  sick  man  stirred  upon  his  pillow  as  if  about  to  waken.  He 
must  not  wake.  It  was  death  to  do  so,  and  Gertie  bent  protect- 
ingly  over  him  as  a  mother  bends  over  her  restless  child,  and 
until  it  was  twice  repeated  she  did  not  answer  the  astonished 
woman's  question,  "  Why  are  you  here,  and  why  call  yourself 
his  sister  ?  " 

Then  she  turned,  and  fixing  her  blue  eyes  steadily  on  the  lady, 
she  said,  in  a  low  whisper  : 

"  Col.  Schuyler  is  in  Europe  ;  there  was  no  one  else  to  come, 
and  I  am  his  sister  ;  read  that." 

She  had  the  colonel's  letter  in  her  pocket,  where  she  kept  it 
constantly,  and  she  passed  it  to  Miss  Rossiter,  who  read  it  rap- 
idly, and  then,  more  surprised  and  bewildered  than  she  had  ever 
been  in  her  life,  began  to  question  Gertie,  who,  of  course,  could 
offer  no  explanation. 

"  The  thing  is  simply  impossible.  Colonel  Schuyler  was  not 
in  Europe  nineteen  years  ago,"  Miss  Rossiter  said,  after  a  little 
mental  calculation. 

"  Mother  might  have  been  in  America,"  was  Gertie's  response, 
quietly  and  sadly  spoken,  and  then  Miss  Rossiter  began  again 
to  question  her  as  to  what  she  herself  knew  of  her  antece- 
dents, or  what  she  had  heard  from  Mary  Rogers. 

The  murmur  of  voices  disturbed  Godfrey,  who  moaned  about 
the  ship  which  would  not  be  still.  Then  Gertie  said  to  her  com- 
panion : 

"  Miss  Rossiter,  you  must  not  talk.  If  Godfrey  gets  well  he 
must  sleep  ;  the  doctor  said  so.  He  has  fancied  himself  in  a 
ship  at  sea,  and  endured  all  the  agonies  of  sea-sickness.  I  have 


IN  NEW  YORK.  381 

succeeded  in  making  him  believe  he  was  on  the  land,  but  if  the 
ship  gets  back  into  his  head,  he  will  die." 

She  spoke  decidedly,  like  one  who  had  a  right,  and  the  proud 
woman  bit  her  lip  with  vexation,  but  obeyed  the  girl  who  had 
so  suddenly  come  before  her  in  a  new  phase  of  character.  She 
could  not  credit  the  story  she  had  heard,  and  yet  there  it  was  in 
the  colonel's  handwriting,  "  You  are  our  daughter."  Even  she 
never  thought  of  Edith  as  connected  with  it,  and  in  her  own 
mind  she  ran  over  the  name  of  every  lady  of  her  acquaintance 
who  could  by  any  possibility  be  implicated  in  the  affair.  But 
all  in  vain.  She  could  find  no  clue  to  the  mystery,  and  was 
obliged  to  give  it  up  and  wait  for  further  developments  when 
the  colonel  returned.  Though  she  did  not  fully  believe  the 
story  she  felt  more  kindly 'toward  Gertie,  and  when  at  last  God- 
frey awoke  and  was  in  the  ship  again,  and  insisted  that  La  Sxur 
should  sit  behind  him  and  hold  his  head  on  her  bosom  to  keep 
it  from  bumping  against  the  side  of  the  berth,  she  bade  Gertie 
sit  there,  and  offered  no  remonstrance  when  the  pale  face  bent 
so  low  over  the  flushed,  feverish  one  that  the  girl's  bright  hair 
mingled  with  the  brown  curls  of  the  sick  man  who  called  her 
"  La  petite  capitaine,"  and  said  she  was  steering  him  through 
the  waves  like 'an  old  salt ! 

Miss  Rossiter  could  not  go  home  while  matters  were  in  this 
state,  and  she  wrote  a  note  to  Alice,  asking  that  a  dressing- 
gown  might  be  sent  to  her  with  a  few  other  articles  necessary 
for  the  sick-room.  Alice  brought  them  herself,  and  sat  in  the 
parlor  and  cried  when  Miss  Rossiter  told  her  of  Godfrey,  and 
opened  her  eyes  with  wonder  when  told  of  Gertie  and  the  rela- 
tion she  bore  to  Colonel  Schuyler,  if  his  word  could  be  trusted. 
Alice  believed  it,  and  it  lifted  a  load  from  her  mind.  If  Gertie 
was  Godfrey's  sister,  then  she  ceased  to  be  a  rival,  and  in  the 
first  revulsion  of  feeling  Alice  felt  very  kindly  toward  Gertie, 
and  expressed  so  strong  a  desire  to  see  her  that,  at  Miss  Ros- 
siter's  request,  Gertie  went  down  to  the  little  lady,  who  re- 
ceived her  rather  gushingly.  Alice  forgave  easily,  and  when 
she  saw  Gertie  so  pale  and  worn,  and  knew  that  it  came  from 
watching  by  Godfrey  when  there  was  no  one  else  to  care  for 


382  IN  NEW  YORK. 

him,  she  forgot  her  old  animosity  entirely,  and  kissing  her  twice 
told  her  what  a  good  girl  she  was  to  stay  with  Godfrey  when  he 
was  so  sick,  and  the  fever  catching,  perhaps. 

"  And  you  are  his  sister,  too  ?  "  she  continued.  "  It  is  very 
strange,  but  I  am  so  glad,  and  everything  will  turn  out  well  if 
Godfrey  only  lives.  Do  you  think  he  will  ?  " 

Gertie  could  not  tell.  He  was  very  sick,  she  said,  and  she 
seemed  so  anxious  to  return  to  him  that  Alice  arose  to  go. 
Standing  a  moment  irresolutely  and  looking  at  Gertie  she  said  : 

"  You  are  a  nice  little  girl,  and  always  were,  and  when  God- 
frey can  understand,  will  you  tell  him  I  have  been  here,  and 
that  1  am  so  sorry,  and— and " 

She  could  not  quite  say  what  she  wanted  to,  but  Gertie  knew 
what  she  meant,  and  answered  her : 

"  I'll  tell  him,  and  do  all  1  can  for  you.  I  think  it  will  come 
right  now." 

She  said  it  sadly,  with  a  pang  of  regret  for  the  condition  of 
things  which  might  result  in  healing  the  difference  between  God- 
frey and  Alice,  and  her  heart  was  very  heavy  as  she  went  back 
to  her  patient,  who  was  conducting  himself  outrageously.  They 
were  in  a  regular  north-easter,  he  said,  and  the  ship  was  bottom 
side  up,  and  he  was  bottom  side  up  with  it,  and  to  the  horror 
of  his  aunt  had  rolled  himself  and  the  bed-clothes  out  upon  the 
floor,  where  he  lay  calling  for  La  capitaine  to  come  and  right 
the  ship  !  With  the  help  of  her  man-servant,  who  had  accom- 
panied Alice,  and  who  was  to  stay  as  long  as  he  was  needed, 
Miss  Rossi ter  got  her  nephew  back  to  bed,  and  when  Gertie 
came  in  he  was  panting  with  exhaustion,  and  evidently  bracing 
himself  against  another  lurch. 

"  Don't  desert,"  he  whispered  to  Gertie.  "  We  had  a  tre- 
mendous swell  while  you  were  away,  and  things  generally  got 
topsy-turvy." 

That  swell  was  the  last.  He  never  attempted  to  roll  again, 
but  sank  gradually  into  a  state  of  unconsciousness  more  alarm- 
ing than  the  lurches  of  the  imaginary  ship  had  been.  The  ves- 
sel was  quiet  no\v,  wrecked,  and  going  down  so  fast,  it  seemed 
to  the  heart-broken  girl  who  watched  beside  poor  Godfrey  day 


IN  NEW  YORK.  383 

and  night  with  a  look  of  anguish  on  her  face  which  touched 
Miss  Rossiter,  and  awoke  within  her  a  feeling  of  interest  for 
the  heart-sore"  creature,  whose  pain  she  in  a  measure  under- 
stood. 

At  last  the  colonel  came.  He  had  gone  straight  to  Hamp- 
stead  within  an  hour  after  landing  in  New  York,  and  hearing 
from  Mrs.  Tiffe  of  his  son's  illness,  and  that  a  telegram  to  the 
effect  that  he  was  worse  had  been  received  that  afternoon,  he 
had  taken  the  night  train  back  to  the  city,  leaving  Edith  at 
Schuyler  Hill,  as  she  was  not  able  to  accompany  him.  Thus 
it  was  near  midnight  when  he  reached  Mrs.  Wilson's  boarding- 
house,  and  asked  eagerly  for  his  son. 

"  Very  bad, — dying  we  fear,"  was  the  report,  and  he  sped 
swiftly  up  the  stairs,  stumbling  in  the  upper  landing  over  a  little 
figure  which  sat  crying  on  the  floor. 

It  was  Alice  who  had  come  down  that  afternoon  to  inquire 
for  Godfrey,  and  on  learning  of  his  condition  had  refused  to  go 
home,  and  lingered  outside  the  door  of  the  room  she  would 
not  enter  lest  she  should  be  guilty  of  an  indiscretion,  or,  per- 
haps, contract  the  fever. 

Poor  Godfrey,  how  white  and  ghastly  and  quiet  he  was  now, 
as  with  his  eyes  shut  he  lay  with  his  head  pillowed  on  Gertie's 
arm,  and  one  of  his  hands  holding  to  her  dress  as  if  afraid  of 
losing  her. 

Gertie  had  sat  thus  for  more  than  an  hour  gazing  upon  the 
pale  face  she  held,  her  eyes  heavy  with  unshed  tears,  for  she 
could  not  cry  any  more.  Her  heart  ached  too  hard  for  that. 
Godfrey  was  dying, — her  Godfrey, — he  said  he  was  the  last  time 
he  spoke  to  her,  and  he  had  called  her  his  little  Gertie,  and 
kissed  her  hand  and  bade  her  stay  with  him  on  the  ship  which 
was  sailing  in  smooth  waters  now  and  was  almost  at  the  shore. 
And  he  was  hers, — her  brother,  perhaps,  but  still  hers  more  than 
anybody  else's  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world. 

Alice  had  sent  a  message  to  her  :  "  Kiss  him  once  for  me  !  " 
but  Gerlie  would  not  do  it.  She  might,  perhaps,  kiss  a  dead 
Godfrey,  but  Godfrey  living  must  know  when  she  kissed  him, 
and  why,  and  so  she  only  held  his  head  and  wiped  the  sweat 


384  GERTIE  AND   THE  STORY. 

from  his  brow,  and  let  her  own  face  fall  over  and  touch  his  for 
a  minute,  while  she  whispered  in  his  ear  and  asked  if  he  still 
heard  her  and  knew  she  was  with  him. 

And  it  was  thus  she  sat  when  the  colonel  came,  and  going  up 
to  his  son  called  him  by  his  name.  But  there  was  no  response, 
no  sign,  and  the  physician  who  stood  waiting,  said  : 

"  He  heeds  no  one  but  his  sister.  Speak  to  him,  Miss  Schuy- 
ler.  See  if  he  knows  you  now." 

Then,  over  the  whiteness  of  Gertie's  face,  there  came  a  flush 
at  hearing  herself  called  Miss  Schuyler  in  the  presence  of  the 
colonel,  but  she  put  her  lips  close  to  Godfrey's  ear,  and  said  : 

"  Godfrey,  do  you  know  me  yet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  Gertie,  stick  to  the  ship,  we  are  about  ready  to 
land,"  was  the  faint  reply  ;  and  with  a  bitter  cry,  as  if  at  the 
sight  of  the  man  who  called  himself  her  father  every  barrier  had 
gone  down,  Gertie  gave  way,  and  winding  both  her  arms  round 
the  form  she  held,  sobbed  passionately  : 

"Oh,  Godfrey,  my  darling,  if  you  can  hear  me  now,  listen 
while  I  tell  you  how  much  1  love  you,  for  I  do, — I  do,  oh,  God- 
frey, oh,  Colonel  Schuyler,"  and  she  lifted  her  white  face  pite- 
ously  to  him.  "  Forgive  me,  if  I  am  wrong,  I  cannot, — can- 
not love  him  as  a  brother." 

Her  head  drooped  upon  hei  bosom,  and  it  was  in  vain  that 
Godfrey  whispered  : 

"  Steady  now,  La  -petite  capitaine,  the  boat  is  running  into 
port." 


CHAPTP:R  LVIII. 

GERTIE    AND    THE    STORY. 

JERTIE  did  not  go  into  Godfrey's  room  again,  nor  was 
it  necessary,  as  he  was  very  quiet  and  seemed  to  be 
sleeping,  while  his  father  sat  by  him  with  his  head 
bowed  down,  and  such  marks  of  age  upon  him  that  Miss  Rossi- 
ter  asked  him  if  he  were  sick.  He  did  not  hear  her  at  first,  and 
she  said,  again  : 


GERTIE  AND    THE  STORY.  385 

"  Howard,  are  you  sick  ?  Have  you  any  trouble  .on  your 
mind  ?  " 

Then  he  looked  up,  with  a  faint  smile,  and  answered  her  : 

"  Trouble  ?  sick  ?  No,  not  sick,  and  no  trouble  now ;  that 
is  past.  I  say,  Christine,  have  I  grown  very  old  ?  isn't  my  hair 
turning  gray  ?  I  did  not  like  to  ask  Edith,  because,  you  see, 
the — the  trouble  concerned  her  the  most." 

Miss  Rossiter  was  sure  of  it.  That  woman,  whom  she  never 
liked,  had  shown  her  colors  at  last,  and  here  was  the  result 
in  the  colonel's  bowed  form  and  fast-turning  hair.  He  had 
grown  old  and  his  hair  was  gray,  and  she  told  him  so,  and  ad- 
ded : 

"  Poor  Howard,  tell  me  about  it.  I  knew  it  must  come  to 
this  when  you  married  her." 

"  Did  you  know  anything  about  it  ? "  the  colonel  asked,  in 
some  surprise  ;  and  Miss  Rossiter  replied  : 

"  Know  about  what  ?  I  knew  it  was  a  mesalliance,  and  they 
always  prove  unhappy." 

"  Hush,  Christine,  it  is  not  that,"  and  the  colonel  spoke 
sternly,  "Edith  is  a  noble  woman.  She  has  been  so  tempted 
and  tried,  and  is  so  broken  now.  Christine,  I  wish  you  were 
her  friend,  my  friend.  I  want  so  much  to  unburden  myself  to 
some  one.  It  would  be  such  a  relief.  Christine,  try  and  like 
my  wife,  and  let  me  tell  you  the  strangest  tale  you  ever  heard, 
and  let  me  feel  that  we  have  your  sympathy  and  support  in  the 
storm  which  will  blow  so  hard." 

He  looked  at  her  so  pleadingly  that  Miss  Rossiter' s  heart  was 
moved,  and  she  said  : 

"  I  like  you,  Howard,  and  know  nothing  against  Edith  as  a 
woman.  She  is  beautiful  and  you  love  her,  and  I  daresay  she 
is  good,  and  I  will  be  your  friend  :  tell  me  the  story,  please  ;  is 
it  about  Gertie  ?  She  showed  me  your  letter  in  which  you 
called  her  your  daughter.  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

Colonel   Schuyler  glanced  at  his  son,  who  was  still  sleeping 

quietly,  then  drawing  his  chair  closer  to  Miss  Rossiter  and 

speaking  in  the  lowest  possible  whisper  for  her  to  hear,  he  told 

her  the  story  from  beginning  to  end.     And  Miss  Rossiter  neither 

17 


386  GERTIE  AND    THE  STORY. 

fainted  nor  went  into  hysterics,  but  for  her  behaved  remarkably 
well,  and  with  the  exception  of  a  few  ejaculations  of  amaze- 
ment when  the  story  was  at  the  most  exciting  point,  never  spoke 
a  word  until  the  colonel  had  told  her  everything  there  was  to 
tell.  Then  her  first  remark  was  : 

"  I  am  so  glad  it  is  Gertie.   You  need  not  be  ashamed  of/ier." 

"  Thank  you,  Christine,"  the  colonel  said ;  "  and  now  who 
will  tell  her,  you  or  I,  and  when  ?  " 

"  You,  and  as  soon  as  she  can  bear  it.  I  think  she  is  too 
tired  now,  too  much  fatigued  ;  she  ought  to  have  perfect  rest. 
If  I  knew  Godfrey  was  out  of  danger  I  should  take  her  home 
with  me.  Perhaps  I  had  better  do  it  anyway,"  Miss  Rossiter 
replied,  wondering  at  herself  and  her  interest  in  Gertie  VVest- 
brooke,  and  why  she  could  not  feel  more  indignant  at  that 
woman,  who  really  had  been  in  a  way  an  impostor  after  all. 

Miss  Rossiter  was  peculiar,  and  often  did  things  and  took 
fancies  which  astonished  those  who  knew  her  best.  And  this 
was  one  of  her  fancies.  Colonel  Schuyler  had  confided  in  her 
first,  had  told  her  everything,  and  asked  her  to  stand  by  him, 
and  she  was  going  to,  and  would  begin  by  being  very  kind  to 
Gertie,  toward  whom  she  had  been  greatly  drawn  during  the 
days  and  nights  they  had  watched  together  by  Godfrey's  bedside. 
After  her  conference  with  the  colonel  was  finished,  and  the 
doctor  had  been  in  and  declared  the  danger  past  for  Godfrey, 
she  went  to  Gertie  and  Alice  in  the  adjoining  room  and  telling 
them  the  good  news,  said  to  the  former  : 

"  Colonel  Schuyler  and  myself  both  think  it  better  for  you 
to  go  where  you  can  have  perfect  rest  and  quiet  for  a  few  days, 
lest  you  take  the  fever  also.  My  carriage  will  be  here  in  an 
hour  or  so ;  you  know  it  comes  every  day,  and  as  I  am  not 
needed  at  present,  I  shall  go  home  and  take  you  with  me." 

Gertie  was  lying  on  the  couch,  with  her  hands  pressed  to  her 
head,  which  was  aching  terribly.  But  she  put  them  away,  and 
lifting  her  heavy  eyes  wonderingly  to  Miss  Rossiter's  face  said  : 

"  Go  home  with  you  I    Do  you  wish  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  1  should  not  suggest  it  if  I  did  not,"  Miss  Rossi- 
ter answered,  a  little  stiffly. 


GERTIE  AND     THE  STORY,  387 

And  Gertie  continued : 

"But  my, — Colonel  Schuyler, — he  has  not  told 'me  yet.  I 
must  know  about  that  before  I  can  rest  anywhere." 

"Yes;  but  you  must  rest  a  little  first,  he  says.  You  will 
need  strength  and  courage  both  to  hear  what  he  has  just  told 
me,"  Miss  Rossiter  replied  ;  and  then,  as  Gertie  was  about  to 
speak  again,  she  added  :  "  Not  a  word  more  at  present.  This 
afternoon,  if  he  can  leave  Godfrey,  the  colonel  will  come  and 
tell  you  all." 

And  with  this  Gertie  was  obliged  to  be  satisfied  ;  and  an 
hour  later  she  was  driven  with  Miss  Rossiter  to  the  handsome 
house  far  up  town,  which  she  had  never  thought  it  possible  for 
her  to  enter  as  she  was  entering  it  now. 

Alice  had  decided  to  go  to  her  own  home  proper  at  Uncle 
Cal vert's,  and  Gertie  was  alone  with  Miss  Rossiter,  who  gave 
her  the  room  near  hers,  where  Alice  slept  when  she  was 
there. 

And  here,  late  in  the  day,  Colonel  Schuyler  came,  and  was 
brought  up  by  Miss  Rossiter,  who  withdrew  and  left  him  alone 
with  Gertie. 

She  was  pale  as  marble,  save  where  two  bright  red  spots 
burned  on  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  heavy  as  lead,  but 
they  brightened  with  eagerness  and  excitement  when  the  colo- 
nel came  in  and  drew  his  chair  beside  her  as  she  lay  upon  the 
couch. 

"  Don't  try  to  rise,"  he  said,  as  she  made  an  effort  to  sit  up. 
"  You  are  too  tired  and  worn ;  keep  as  you  are  while  I  am 
talking  to  you.  Gertie,  it  is  a  very  strange  story  I  am  about  to 
tell  you,  and  khat  it  may  come  to  you  by  degrees,  I  will  tell 
you  first  why  we  went  to  England  so  suddenly,  and  that  when 
we  went  we  had  no  thought  of  you,  or  that  we  should  discover 
who  you  were.  We  were  hunting  for  another  child." 

Gertie  was  looking  steadily  at  him,  and  her  eyes  never  left 
his  face  while  he  told  her  the  story,  beginning  with  the  time 
when  he  first  asked  Edith  to  be  his  wife,  and  she  hinted  at  a 
page  of  her  life  of  which  she  wished  to  tell  him,  and  which 
after  so  many  years,  had  come  to  him  by  accident. 


388  GERTIE  AND    THE  STORY, 

"I  have  the  letter  with  me,"  he  said;  "I  brought  it  on  pur- 
pose to  read  to  you,  as  it  will  tell  the  story  so  much  better  than 
I  can." 

Taking  out  Edith's  letter  he  read  it  aloud,  while  Gertie's  eyes 
deepened  their  gaze  upon  his  face,  and  the  red  all  died  from 
her  cheeks,  which  were  of  an  ashen  hue,  as  when  the  letter 
was  finished,  he  went  on  to  tell  how  the  child  was  not  dead,  as 
Edith  had  supposed,  and  of  their  search  in  London,  which  they 
gave  at  last  into  the  hands  of  the  police. 

"Then,  while  we  were  waiting,"  he  said,  "I  thought  to  make 
some  inquiries  about  you  at  the  office  where  your  annuity  is 
paid.  There  I  heard  of  a  Mrs.  Westbrooke,  recently  from 
Florence,  and  to  her  we  went,  hoping  she  might  know  some- 
thing of  you,  and  she  did.  She  was  the  second  wife  of  the  man 
who  was  not  your  father,  but  whose  first  wife  adopted  you  when 
her  own  baby  died.  Her  maid,  Mary  Stover,  afterward  Mrs. 
Rogers,  told  her  of  you,  and  brought  you  to  her  from  her 

mother,  who  had  taken  you  from  the Street  Foundling 

Hospital,  where  you  had  been  left  on  the  steps,  and  where 
Mary  Stover's  sister  Anne  was  at  that  time  nurse. 

"  Gertie,  are  you  going  to  faint  ?  Do  you  hear  me  ?  Do 
you  understand  ?  "  the  colonel  asked,  alarmed  at  the  expression 
of  the  face  still  confronting  him  so  steadily,  and  never  moving 
a  muscle  any  more  than  if  the  features  had  been  chiselled  in 
stone. 

"Yes,  I  think— I  understand,"  came  huskily  from  the  livid 
lips,  "  that  baby,  born  in  Dorset  Street,  and  left  on  the  hospital 
steps,  and  hunted  for  by  you — and — and — her — was — was — 7, 
and  she— your— Mrs.  Schuyler — is — my  mother— and  that — 
that  grave  I've  tended  always — is— is  my  father's  !  " 

She  understood  it  perfectly,  but  the  colonel  thought  to  make 
it  clearer  by  saying  : 

"  Yes,  Gertie,  you  are  the  child  of  my  wife,  Mrs.  Schuyler, 
born  in  lawful  wedlock,  and  Abelard  Lyle  was  your  father  ! " 

He  opened  the  window  and  carried  Gertie  to  it,  and  let  the 
cool  air  blow  on  her,  and  dashed  water  on  her  face,  and  only 
that  he  had  seen  Edith  thus  more  than  once,  would  have 


GERTIE  AND   THE  STORY.  389 

thought  her  dead,  when  he  laid  her  back  upon  the  couch  and 
went  to  summon  help.  Miss  Rossiter  watched  with  Gertie  that 
night  and  many  other  nights,  while  the  fever  contracted  at 
Godfrey's  bedside,  and  brought  to  a  crisis  by  the  terrible  shock 
which  she  had  sustained,  ran  its  course.  There  were  a  few 
moments  of  consciousness  that  first  night,  when  Gertie's  eyes 
opened  and  looked  up  at  Miss  Rossiter,  who  was  Bending  over 
her. 

"  Am  I  very  sick  ?  "  she  asked  faintly,  and  Miss  Rossiter  re- 
plied : 

"  Pretty  sick,  yes  ;  but  we  hope  to  have  you  well  soon  if  you 
are  quiet." 

"  Am  I  going  to  have  the  fever  like  Godfrey  ?" 

"  Yes,  we  think  you  are,  though  not  so  hard." 

"  Miss  Rossiter,  if  I  am  very  sick,  very, — I  want  her  to  come, 
— mother, — Mrs.  Schuyler, — you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"And  if  I  don't  know  her,  if  I  never  know  her,  tell  her  please, 
that  I  have  loved  her  since  I  first  saw  her  a  bride  in  England, 
and  gave  the  flowers  to  her  ;  and  tell  her,  too,  I've  loved  that 
Heloise  Fordham  ever  since  Miss  Armstrong  told  me  about  her 
and  the  lover  who  died,  and  my  name  is  Heloise,  too, — Gertrude 
Heloise, — and  there's  a  spot  of  blood  right  over  my  heart ;  she 
will  find  it  there  if  I  die." 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  her." 

"And  tell  Godfrey, — oh,  what  message  shall  I  leave  for  God- 
frey ?  Tell  him  I  loved  him, — more  than  he  ever  knew  ;  but  he 
must  marry  Alice  for  my  sake.  Tell  him  it  was  my  wish." 

"  I'll  tell  him." 

"  And  Miss  Rossiter,  ler  me  kiss  you  once,  please,  because 
you  are  so  kind.  I  used  to  think  you  proud,  and  guess  I  did 
not  like  you,  but  I  do  now.  I  like  everybody." 

The  kiss  was  given,  and,  strangest  part  of  all,  returned,  for 
Miss  Rossiter' s  heart  was  very  soft  toward  the  young  girl,  who, 
having  said  all  she  had  to  say,  folded  her  hands  upon  her  bosom, 
and  whispering  the  little  prayer.  "  Now  I  lay  me,"  learned  when 
she  was  a  child,  sank  into  unconsciousness,  from  which  she  did 


390  GERTIE  AND    THE  STORY. 

not  awake  until  the  first  April  rains  \vere  falling,  and  there  was 
a  breath  of  coming  summer  in  the  soft  spring  air.  If  that 
sickness  can  be  called  pleasant  when  the  fever  runs  so  high  that 
the  pulse  cannot  be  counted,  and  the  breath  of  life  almost  fleets 
away,  then  Gertie's  sickness  was  a  pleasant  one,  and  never  sure 
before  or  since  was  there  a  patient  so  docile,  and  quiet,  and  man- 
ageable as  she,  taking  always  what  they  bade  her  take,  lying 
just  where  they  put  her,  and  seldom  moving  hand  or  foot  save 
as  they  moved  them  for  her.  Like  Godfrey,  she  was  out  on 
the  broad  sea,  sailing  away  to  parts  unknown,  but  with  her  there 
were  no  storms,  no  sudden  lurches,  no  rollings,  no  pitchings,  no 
swelling  waves  threatening  to  engulf  her.  All  was  smooth  and 
quiet  and  calm,  as  a  river  of  glass,  and  the  sun  by  day  shone 
upon  the  water,  flecking  it  with  spots  of  gold,  while  the  moon  and 
stars  at  night  looked  down  on  the  blue  expanse,  and  lit  it  up 
with  sheets  of  silvery  light,  into  which  Gertie  went  gliding,  with 
Godfrey  at  her  side.  Always  Godfrey,  who  stood  at  the  helm  and 
managed  the  oars,  and  managed  the  sails,  and  talked  to  her  of 
love,  which  it  was  right  for  her  now  to  accept.  In  that  pleas- 
ant dream  there  was  no  Alice  in  the  way,  no  father  to  dissent, 
but  all  was  bright  and  clear,  and  the  boat  went  drifting  on  and 
on,  always  in  moonlight  or  sunlight,  always  on  a  smooth,  still 
sea,  till  they  came  in  sight  of  a  far-off  country,  where  golden 
streets  and  gates  of  pearl  gleamed  in  the  setting  sun,  and  the 
boat  paused  mid  stream,  and  waited  whether  the  soul  would 
cross  to  the  beautiful  city,  or  turning,  take  the  homeward  route 
and  come  back  to  life  again.  It  chose  the  latter,  and  came 
slowly  back,  with  sails  all  drooping  and  torn,  and  more  ripples  on 
the  waves  than  had  been  in  the  journey  out.  Godfrey  was  no 
longer  in  the  boat,  Gertie  had  lost  him  somewhere,  and  was 
hunting  sadly  for  him  until  a  voice,  which  sounded  much  like 
his,  said  to  her :  "  Gertie,  I  am  here,  and  shall  never  leave  you 
again." 

Then  her  little  plaintive  moan,  "  Godfrey,  oh,  where  is  God- 
frey ?  "  ceased,  and  when  she  spoke  again,  it  was  to  a  beauti- 
ful woman,  who,  she  thought,  was  standing  by  her,  and  calling 
her  "  my  daughter."  Oh,  how  that  mother-love  brooded  over 


THE  STORY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  39! 

the  sick  girl,  soothing  and  quieting  and  comforting  her,  and 
with  its  pleading  prayers  bringing  at  last  the  healing  power 
which  unlocked  the  sleeping  senses,  and  made  Gertie  whole 
again.  For  Edith  was  there  with  her,  and  had  been  since  the 
third  day  of  her  illness,  when  the  colonel's  telegram  went  up 
the  river,  saying  :  "  Gertie  is  very  sick.  Come  immediately." 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

THE    STORY   IN    HAMPSTEAD. 

WAS  at  the  Hill  when  the  telegram  was  received. 
In  fact  I  had  been  there  ever  since  the  day  of  Edith's 
return  from  Europe  and  the  colonel's  departure  for> 
New  York.  I  had  with  others  been  waiting  anxiously  for  them, 
for  I  knew  how  sick  Godfrey  was,  and  that  Gertie,  wrhether 
right  or  wrong,  wras  helping  to  nurse  him.  So  when  I  saw  the 
carriage  drive  past  the  door,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  Edith,  I 
went  over  at  once,  and  was  shocked  beyond  measure  to  see 
how  she  had  changed.  All  the  roundness  had  left  her  cheeks, 
her  bright  color  was  gone,  and  in  her  tresses  of  golden  brown 
there  were  a  few  threads  of  silver.  And  still,  despite  all  this, 
she  was  very  lovely,  with  such  a  subdued  gentleness  of  manner 
and  sweet  expression  of  face  that  I  felt  the  tears  rush  to  my 
eyes  every  time  I  looked  at  her. 

"Stay  with  me,  Ettie,  while  the  colonel  is  absent,"  she  said, 
and  she  seemed  so  anxious  for  my  company  that  I  consented 
to  remain,  and  after  Colonel  Schuyler  was  gone  we  went  up  to 
her  room,  where  she  paced  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  with  a 
restlessness  for  which  I  could  not  account,  unless  it  came  from 
anxiety  for  Godfrey. 

At  last  I  said  : 

"  You  are  troubled  about  Godfrey,  Mrs.  Schuyler,"  and  she 
replied  : 

"  Yes. — no.    I  was  not  thinking  of  him,  but  of  Gertie.    Ettie, 


392  THE  STORY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

do  you  remember  the  people  who  lived  in  the  cottage  years  ago, 
Mrs.  Fordham  and  her  daughter  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  I  remember  them  well.  Why  do  you 
ask  me  that  question  ?  " 

She  was  standing  by  the  window  now,  gazing  wistfully  at  the 
cottage  and  the  smoke  curling  from  the  chimney. 

"  Did  you  like  that  girl  ?  Heloise  was  her  name,"  she  said, 
without  answering  my  question. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  I  was  very  fond  of  her,  and  thought 
her  so  beautiful,  and  I  have  often  wondered  where  she  was  that 
she  neither  came  back  nor  wrote,  when  she  promised  to  do 
both." 

Crossing  swiftly  to  my  side  and  laying  a  hand  on  each  of  my 
shoulders  she  looked  me  steadily  in  the  eye,  and  said  : 

"Ettie,  is  there  anything  in  my  face  which  reminds  you  of 
•that  girl  ?" 

Then  it  came  to  me  like  a  flash  of  lightning ;  all  the  per- 
plexity and  wonder  I  had  at  times  experienced  with  regard  to 
Mrs.  Schuyler  was  made  clear,  and  without  stopping  to  think 
how  it  could  be  and  thinking  only  that  it  was,  I  said  : 

"  You  are  Heloise  1 "  while  my  knees  shook  so  that  I  was 
compelled  to  sit  down  upon  the  nearest  chair  to  keep  myself 
from  falling. 

"Yes,  I  was  Heloise  Fordham  once,"  she  answered,  her  lip 
quivering  and  the  great  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes  and  rolling 
down  her  cheeks.  "  Ettie,"  she  continued,  "  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  so  many  times,  but  dared  not,  for  until  that  sickness  of 
mine  in  November  my  husband  even  did  not  know  it." 

At  this  I  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  she  went  on  : 

"  I  asked  you  to  stay  with  me  that  I  might  tell  you  the  story 
first,  and  let  you  break  it  to  the  people,  for  I  will  have  no  more 
concealments." 

Then  she  told  me  the  whole  story,  and  to  my  dying  day  I 
shall  not  forget  the  ringing  sweetness  and  joy  in  her  voice  when 
she  said : 

"  Gertie  is  my  daughter." 

I  had  heard  the  rest  of  the  story  with  a  tolerable  degree  of 


THE  STORY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  393 

equanimity,  but  that  last  electrified  me  like  the  shock  from  a 
battery,  and  springing  to  my  feet  I  exclaimed  : 

"  Gertie  your  daughter  !     Gertie  your  child  !  " 

"  Yes,  Ettie,  God  has  been  good  to  me.  He  has  taken  care 
of  my  little  baby-girl  and  made  her  into  a  woman  whom  any 
mother  might  love ;  and  oh,  how  I  do  love  her,  and  how  hard  it 
is  for  me  to  stay  here  and  know  that  she  is  only  two  hours' 
away.  But  we  thought  it  best  for  my  husband  to  go  first  and 
tell  her  before  I  saw  her.  He  offered  to  do  that ;  he  tries  to 
spare  me  all  he  can  ;  oh,  he  is  so  good  and  kind,  and  has  be- 
haved so  nobly  through  it  all." 

She  was  crying  now,  and  I  did  not  try  to  stop  her,  for  I  knew 
tears  would  do  her  good.  And  she  was  calmer  after  it,  and 
talked  with  me  until  long  after  midnight  of  the  strange  story  and 
the  old  life  at  the  cottage  when  we  both  were  girls. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  colonel's  first  telegram  came  : 
"  Godfrey  is  very  sick,  but  out  of  danger,  we  hope.  Miss 
Eossiter  and  Gertie  both  here  ;  the  latter  well,  but  tired." 

I  doubt  if  Edith  paid  much  attention  to  anything  but  the  last  of 
the  telegram,  the  part  relating  to  Gertie.  This  she  read  and  re- 
read, as  if  there  were  a  pleasure  even  in  the  sight  of  the  dear  name. 

"  You  see  Mrs.  Westbrooke  named  her  Gertrude  for  her  own 
little  girl  who  died,"  she  explained  to  me,  "  and  as  she  did  not 
know  whether  she  had  been  baptized  or  not  she  had  her 
christened  '  Gertrude  Heloise  Westbrooke,'  so  Westbrooke 
really  is  her  name,  and  I  am  glad,  for  I  know  my  husband 
would  rather  have  it  that  than  Lyle." 

After  lunch  came  another  telegram  :  "  Godfrey  better.  Ger- 
tie at  Miss  Rossiter*s.  Shall  see  her  to-night." 

That  evening  Edith  was  like  a  crazy  woman  walking  up  and 
down  the  halls,  and  then  through  her  suite  of  rooms  and  back 
again  into  the  hall,  clasping  her  hands  tightly  together,  and 
whispering  to  herself : 

"  Is  it  now  he  is  telling  her  ?     Does  she  know  it  yet  ?     And 
what  does  she  think  of  me,  her  mother  ?     Will  she  call  me  by 
that  name  ?      Oh,  Gertie,  if  I  could  see  you  now.     Heaven 
grant  you  do  not  hate  me." 
17* 


394  THE  STORY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

Suddenly  she  grew  calm,  and  said  to  me  : 

"  Something  tells  me  it  is  over.  Gertie  knows  the  truth  and 
does  not  hate  me.  Thank  my  Heavenly  Father  for  that." 

Edith  slept  that  night,  but  was  restless  and  impatient  in  the 
morning  until  the  third  message  came.  "  She  knows  everything, 
and  is  very  glad." 

"Then  why  doesn't  she  come  home?"  Edith  said,  and  all 
that  day  she  was  in  a  feverish  state  of  expectancy  when  a  train 
from  New  York  came  in. 

But  Gertie  did  not  come,  and  the  next  day  we  read  the  words  : 
"  Gertie  is  very  sick.  Come  immediately." 

Then  Edith  frightened  me,  she  turned  so  white  and  stood  so 
still,  while  the  iron  fingers  clutched  her  throat  for  the  last  time, 
and  strangled  her  until  her  face  was  purple.  I  rang  for  help, 
but  before  it  came  the  fingers  relaxed  their  grasp,  the  natural 
color  came  back  to  the  face,  and  Edith  was  herself  again. 
Fortunately  it  was  her  maid  who  answered  the  ring,  and  telling 
her  of  the  dispatch,  and  that  she  was  going  to  New  York,  Edith 
bade  her  pack  her  travelling  valise,  and  order  the  carriage  for 
the  next  train,  due  in  half  an  hour. 

"  Oh,  Ettie,"  she  cried,  when  we  were  alone,  "  God  will  not 
take  her  from  me  now.  Pray  that  He  will  spare  Gertie." 

I  think  she  prayed  constantly,  while  getting  herself  ready, 
for  her  lips  moved  continually,  and  I  caught  the  whispered 
words  :  "  Don't, — don't,"  and  knew  she  was  pleading  for  Gertie's 
life.  I  went  with  her  to  the  station  and  saw  her  on  the  train, 
and  then  returned  to  the  Hill,  charged  with  the  responsibility 
of  acquainting  the  household,  and  as  many  others  as  I  saw  fit 
with  the  story  which  it  was  better  to  have  known  while  the  family 
was  absent. 

I  found  Mrs.  Tiffe  in  her  own  room,  and  with  her  a  Mrs. 
Noall,  a  great  gossip  but  a  thoroughly  good-natured  and  well- 
meaning  woman,  and  though  she  told  all  she  knew,  never  told 
any  more,  and  always  told  it  as  she  heard  it.  Here  was  a 
good  opportunity  for  the  news  to  be  thoroughly  disseminated 
without  much  help  from  me,  further  than  the  telling  it  first  to  my 
auditors.  And  this  it  was  easy  to  do,  for  they  were  talking  of 


THE  STORY  IN  HAMPSTEAD.  395 

Mrs.  Schuyler  when  I  went  in,  and  Mrs.  Noall  was  wondering 
why  they  came  home  from  Europe  so  suddenly,  and  why  they 
both  seemed  so  broken  and  worn.  She  surmised  that  the  col- 
onel's finances  were  in  a  very  precarious  condition ;  she  knew 
he  had  suffered  some  heavy  losses  recently  and  perhaps  he  was 
going  to  fail. 

"  It  is  not  that,"  I  said.  "  It  is  something  entirely  different 
which  has  troubled  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schuyler,  and  I  have  come  in 
on  purpose  to  tell  you,  as  Mrs.  Schuyler  wishes  the  people  to 
know  it  before  her  return." 

Then,  taking  a  chair  betAveen  the  two  dames  I  told  the  story 
of  Edith's  life,  interrupted  frequently  by  questions  and  ejacula- 
tions from  my  auditors,  both  of  whom  were  more  amazed  than 
they  had  ever  been  before  in  their  lives.  Mrs.  Tiffe  was  the 
first  to  recover  herself.  She  had  the  family  dignity  to  maintain, 
and  she  was  going  to  do  it,  and  while  she  condemned  the  Ford- 
ham  woman  out  and  out,  she  stood  firmly  by  Edith  as  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning,  and  said  that  she  for  one  thought 
more  of  her  than  ever,  and  that  every  right-minded  person  would 
agree  with  her,  of  course.  Mrs.  Noall,  who  was  usually  chary 
of  offending  Mrs.  Tiffe,  fully  agreed  with  her,  and  both  expressed 
unbounded  delight  that  the  lost  child  had  proved  to  be  Gertie 
Westbrooke,  whom  everybody  loved. 

"  And  that's  what  makes  her  sick,  and  why  Mrs.  Schuyler  has 
gone  to  her.  I  see, — yes,  I  understand,"  Mrs.  Noall  said,  and 
though  she  had  intended  stopping  to  dinner  with  Mrs.  Tiffe,  she 
declared  that  she  must  go  at  once,  apd  she  went,  and  to  my 
certain  knowledge  made  twenty  calls  before  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
and  told  the  story  twenty  times  without  varying  it  in  the  least. 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  more  for  me  to  do  except  to 
answer  the  questions  of  those  who  came  on  purpose  to  inquire 
if  what  they  had  heard  was  true.  Never  before  had  I  received 
so  many  calls  within  a  given  time  as  I  did  during  the  few  days 
of  excitement  when  Hampstead  was  alive  with  the  story,  and 
reminiscences  of  the  Fordhams  were  brought  up  and  comments 
of  various  kinds  were  made,  according  to  the  nature  of  those 
who  made  them.  I  think  Mrs.  Barton  from  the  Ridge  was  the 


396  THE  STORY  IN  HAMPSTEAD. 

most  disturbed  ;  she  had  spent  the  winter  in  Hampstead,  and 
she  came  to  see  me  early,  and  stayed  three  hours,  and  talked 
the  matter  over,  and  wished  that  it  had  not  been  made  public. 

Mrs.  Barton  was  a  kind,  good  woman  at  heart,  but  very  proud 
and  particular  about  family  and  blood,  and  I  knew  she  was 
thinking  of  Tom,  who  still  avowed  his  intention  to  marry  Gertie 
or  nobody,  and  so  I  flamed  up  in  Edith's  defence,  and  said  she 
was  resolved  to  have  no  more  concealments,  that  I  /;#</ suggested 
to  her  the  propriety  of  not  telling  who  her  first  husband  was,  as 
that  was  sure  to  increase  the  talk  and  wonder. 

"  Mrs.  Barton,"  I  continued,  "  you  ought  to  have  seen  her 
then,  and  heard  how  piteously  she  cried  as  she  said  to  me,  '  No, 
Ettie,  I've  thought  that  over,  and  talked  it  over  with  Col.  Schuy- 
ler,  who  is  willing  for  me  to  do  as  I  like.  To  conceal  it  would 
look  as  if  I  was  ashamed  of  Abelard,  and  I  am.  not.  He  was 
my  husband  and  I  loved  him,  and  Gertie  and  the  world  shall 
know  who  her  father  was.'  " 

"  Noble  woman  ! "  Mrs.  Barton  exclaimed,  crying  a  little  her- 
self. "  I  think  she  is  right  after  all,  and  for  one  I  shall  stand 
by  her." 

Everybody  stood  by  her,  though  everybody  talked  and  won- 
dered and  exclaimed,  and  suddenly  remembered  that  they  al- 
ways thought  there  was  something  familiar  in  Mrs.  Schuyler's 
face  and  manner.  Everybody,  too,  was  anxious  about  Gertie, 
and  the  people  cried  on  the  Sunday  when  the  prayer  for  the 
sick  was  read  by  our  rector,  Mr.  Marks,  whose  voice  trembled 
when  he  prayed  for  her.  At  last  the  one  word  "  Better"  flashed 
along  the  wires,  and  the  boy  from  the  office  ran  as  he  brought 
the  telegram,  telling  everybody  he  met  of  the  good  news,  and 
wiping  his  eyes  on  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  as  he  handed  the  en- 
velope to  me,  and  said:  "I  guess  she'll  pull 'er  through." 


EDITH  AND    GERTIE.  397 


CHAPTER  LX. 

EDITH   AND    GERTIE. 

1HEN  Gertie  wound  her  arms  around  Miss  Rossiter's 
neck  and  kissed  her  so  lovingly,  she  touched  a  chord 
in  the  woman's  heart  which  had  never  been  touched 
before, — a  chord  which,  under  favorable  circumstances,  would 
have  vibrated  with  a  mother's  love,  and  which  now  brought  to 
life  so  strong  a  liking  for  the  helpless  girl,  that  had  there  been 
no  Edith  in  the  way,  Miss  Rossiter  would  have  adopted  her  at 
once  as  her  own  petted  daughter.  During  the  days  and  nights 
they  had  watched  together  by  Godfrey's  side,  Gertie  had  crept 
a  long  way  into  Miss  Rossiter's  heart  by  her  quiet,  gentle  man- 
ner, and  her  kind,  unselfish  thoughtfulness  for  her  companion's 
comfort.  More  than  once,  when  Miss  Rossiter  looked  tired 
and  worn,  Gertie  had  made  her  lie  down,  and  kneeling  beside 
her  had  bathed  and  rubbed  her  head,  and  even  her  feet,  and 
combed  and  brushed  her  hair,  and  had  done  it  all  as  if  it  were 
a  favor  to  herself  rather  than  to  her  companion,  whose  duty  it 
now  was  to  care  for  her. 

And  Miss  Rossiter  did  not  shrink  from  the  task  imposed 
upon  her.  True,  she  wore  a  lump  of  camphor  in  her  bosom  to 
prevent  infection,  just  as  she  had  done  in  Godfrey's  room,  and 
she  occasionally  swallowed  a  pill  of  morphine,  and  kept  the 
house  full  of  chloride  of  lime,  and  used  every  disinfectant  of 
which  she  had  ever  heard,  and  hired  a  nurse  to  take  care  of 
Gertie,  but  stood  by  her  all  the  same,  and  saw  that  the  doctor's 
orders  were  obeyed.  The  third  day  Col.  Schuyler  said  to  her, 
when  he  came  to  look  at  Gertie  : 

"  Christine,  you  are  doing  nobly,  and  I  thank  you  so  much, 
but  I  must  test  you  still  further.  Gertie's  mother  ought  to  be 
here  when  her  child  is  so  sick.  Are  you  willing  I  should  send 
for  her?" 

"  Certainly,"  Miss  Rossiter  replied,  with  a  little  darker  shade 


398  EDITH  AND   GERTIE, 

on  her  face.  "  Send  for  her  by  all  means.  I  had  thought  of 
that  myself." 

It  was  right,  Miss  Rossiter  knew,  that  Edith  should  come  to 
her  sick  daughter,  and  she  gave  her  consent  graciously,  though 
there  was  in  her  heart  a  feeling  of  aversion  to  the  woman  who 
had  taken  Emily's  place,  and  whom  she  had  always  disliked. 
Still  in  her  own  house  she  must  be  polite  and  courteous,  and 
she  received  Mrs.  Schuyler  kindly,  and  made  her  rest  awhile 
and  take  some  refreshment  before  she  went  to  Gertie,  who  was 
sleeping  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 

"She  would  not  know  you,  though  she  talks  of  you  some- 
times," Miss  Rossiter  said,  "and  you  must  be  careful  not  to 
excite  her  in  the  least." 

Edith  promised  to  do  whatever  Miss  Rossiter  thought  was 
proper. 

"Only  let  me  go  to  her  at  once,"  she  said.  "You  know  I 
have  not  seen  her  in  nineteen  years,  and  she  my  own  child,  too." 

"  Not  seen  her  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Miss  Rossiter  asked, 
a  suspicion  of  Edith's  sanity  crossing  her  mind. 

"  I  mean  I  have  not  seen  her,  knowing  she  was  my  daughter," 
Edith  replied,  as  she  followed  to  the  room  where  Gertie  lay  so 
white  and  still,  her  bright  hair  tucked  away  beneath  a  silken 
net,  a  red  fever  spot  on  cheek  and  lips,  and  her  hands  folded 
upon  her  bosom  just  as  she  kept  them  for  the  most  of  the  time 
while  with  Godfrey  she  went  sailing  over  the  golden  sea  to  the 
country  so  far  away. 

She  was  on  her  journey  thither  when  Edith  came  in,  and, 
parting  the  curtains  cautiously,  stood  looking  at  her,  while  in 
fancy  she  was  a  young  girl  again  in  the  dreary  room  in  Dorset 
Street,  and  the  rain  plashed  against  the  windows,  and  ran  down 
the  panes  in  dirty  streams,  and  the  roar  of  the  great  city  sounded 
in  her  ears,  and  she  heard  the  lodgers'  steps  upon  the  stairs,  and 
her  baby  was  in  her  arms,  nestled  so  close  to  her  that  she  felt 
the  warm,  tender  flesh  against  her  own,  just  as  she  felt  that  of 
the  sick  girl,  whose  face  and  neck,  and  hands  she  touched  so 
carefully,  and  yet  with  such  a  world  of  love  and  tenderness,  as 
she  whispered  to  herself: 


EDITH  AND   GERTIE.  399 

"  Little  girley,  little  baby,  little  Gertie,  my  very  own  little 
one,  you  are  changed  since  that  dreadful  day  so  many  years 
ago,  but  I  know  that  you  are  mine.  They  took  you  from  me 
when  I  was  asleep,  and  now,  when  I  see  you  again,  I  find  you 
sleeping  too.  Darling  little  child,  do  you  know  it  is  your 
mother  standing  here  and  talking  to  you  thus?  Will  you  ever 
know,  ever  open  your  eyes  on  me  and  call  me  mother  ?  Oh, 
Father  in  Heaven,  spare  her  to  me, — spare  my  precious  child  !  " 
This  was  what  the  colonel  heard  Edith  say ;  for,  feeling  anxious 
for  her,  he  stood  just  outside  the  door,  and  when  her  voice 
ceased  and  he  heard  a  rustling  sound,  he  went  in,  and,  support- 
ing her  with  his  arm  as  she  sank  into  a  chair,  held  her  head 
upon  his  bosom,  and  soothed  her  tenderly. 

It  was  strange  the  effect  Edith's  presence  in  the  sick-room 
had  upon  Miss  Rossiter.  She  had  fully  indorsed  Gertie, — ay, 
had  in  some  sort  adopted  her  in  her  own  mind,  and  could  not 
bear  that  another  should  share  her  watch  and  care  and  anxiety 
for  the  only  sick  person  in  whom  she  had  ever  been  so  deeply 
interested.  But  as  soon  as  Edith's  tears  were  dried,  and  she 
was  herself  again,  the  calm,  quiet  dignity  of  the  mother  asserted 
itself,  and  Miss  Rossiter,  who  was  not  the  mother,  was  com- 
pelled to  stand  aside  while  another  took  her  place  and  did  the 
thousand  little  things  which  only  a  mother  could  have  thought 
to  do. 

And  Edith  did  not  grow  tired  with  constant  watching.  On 
the  contraiy,  both  strength  and  flesh  came  back  to  her,  and, 
when  at  last  the  fever  turned,  and  she  knew  her  child  would  live, 
she  gained  faster  than  Gertie,  and  it  seemed  to  the  colonel  that 
she  grew  young  and  fair  and  smooth  each  day  until  it  was  very 
hard  to  believe  her  the  mother  of  the  sick  girl,  who,  with 
the  marks  of  disease  upon  her  face,  looked  her  nineteen 
years. 

The  sea  was  not  so  placid  now,  the  boat  was  tossing  on  the 
waves,  and  Gertie  sat  alone  on  deck,  and  called  in  vain  for 
Godfrey,  who  had  deserted  his  post  and  was  nowhere  to  be 
found,  until  one  morning,  when  he  came  bodily,  the  wreck  of 
his  former  self,  and  climbing  the  stairs  to  Gertie's  room,  bent 


400  EDITH  AND    GERTIE. 

over  her  with  words  of  love  which  penetrated  to  her  dull  ear, 
and  must  in  part  have  been  comprehended. 

After  that  Godfrey  stayed  in  Miss  Rossiter's  house,  which 
seemed  a  sort  of  hospital,  and  was  so  distasteful  to  Miss  Julia, 
when  at  last  she  came  from  Florida,  that  she  accepted  her 
Uncle  Calvert's  invitation,  and  went  to  the  poky  house  on 
Washington  Square,  where  the  Sixth  Avenue  cars  on  one  side, 
and  the  University  on  the  other,  nearly  drove  her  wild  with  the 
never-ending  tinkle  of  their  bells. 

Julia  had  heard  every  particular  of  the  story  before  she  came 
home,  for  her  father  had  written  it  to  her,  and  had  told  her  of 
Gertie's  illness,  and  Edith's  presence  in  Miss  Rossiter's  house. 
Thus  her  first  surprise  and  indignation  had  had  time  to  abate, 
and  now  she  was  in  a  kind  of  bewildered  state,  incapable  of 
realizing  anything  to  the  full,  except  the  fact  that  in  some  sort 
her  aunt  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy,  leaving  her  alone  on  the 
old  vantage  ground  of  dislike  and  opposition  to  that  woman 
through  whom  all  this  had  come  upon  them.  Fortunately, 
however,  for  Julia,  her  mind  was  just  then  occupied  with 
thoughts  of  a  Southern  bachelor,  who  had  offered  himself  and 
his  reputed  half  million  for  her  acceptance.  This  offer  she  was 
duly  considering  when  she  came  home,  and  after  seeing  how 
matters  were  at  her  Aunt  Christine's,  and  staying  a  day  or  two 
in  the  dark  old  house  in  Washington  Square,  she  nearly  made 
up  her  mind  to  accept  it,  though  the  man  was  forty  and  bored 
her  nearly  to  death  with  his  twaddling  talk  about  his  horses  and 
dogs.  She  had  not  seen  Edith  during  the  one  day  and  night 
spent  at  Miss  Rossiter's,  neither  had  she  mentioned  her  name 
or  inquired  for  Gertie,  except  to  ask  if  the  fever  was  considered 
catching,  and  how  her  aunt  liked  having  her  house  turned  into 
a  hospital !  Of  this  indifference  Edith  knew  nothing,  and  would 
not  have  cared  if  she  had.  All  her  thoughts  were  centred  in 
that  little,  white-faced  girl  slowly  groping  her  way  back  to  life 
and  reason,  and  talking  now  far  more  than  she  had  done  at  first 
when  the  water  was  so  still  and  the  boat  sailed  so  steadily. 
She  was  saved  ;  she  would  live  ;  there  was  no  question  about 
that,  and  Edith  had  only  to  wait  patiently  for  the  day  when  the 


EDITH  AND    GERTIE.  401 

blue  eyes  would  first  look  at  her  with  recognition  in  their  glance, 
and  the  dear  voice  call  her  mother. 

Miss  Rossiter  had  given  her  Gertie's  message,  and  she  knew 
the  words  by  heart,  and  repeated  them  to  herself  as  she  watched 
for  the  first  faint  sign  of  reason.  It  was  on  a  pleasant  April 
day,  and  the  windows  of  the  room  were  open,  and  the  sun 
shone  softly  upon  the  plants  which  Miss  Rossiter  had  placed 
outside  the  windows,  where  they  made  quite  a  little  garden. 

Edith  had  been  up  all  night,  and  was  still  sitting  across  the 
room,  leaning  her  tired  head  upon  her  hand,  when  a  sound 
caught  her  ear  and  brought  her  to  her  feet,  where  she  stood  lis- 
tening intently,  wondering  if  she  could  be  mistaken,  or  had  she 
heard  the  blessed  name  mother,  and  was  she  the  mother  meant 
and  Gertie's  the  voice  which  called  her. 

"  Mother,  my  mother,"  it  came  again,  and  then  Edith  glided 
across  the  floor,  and  parting  the  silken  hangings  to  the  bed 
looked  eagerly  in. 

Gertie  was  awake,  and  sane,  and  thinking  herself  alone  had 
tried  to  put  things  together  and  remember  where  she  was,  and 
what  it  was  she  heard  long  ago,  which  made  her  so  glad. 

"  Oh,  I  know  I  have  a  mother,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  it 
was  this  word  Edith  caught. 

"  Mother,  my  mother,"  Gertie  said  again,  delighted  to  repeat 
the  dear  name,  and  then  it  was  that  Edith  parted  the  curtains 
and  looked  in  upon  her. 

Oh,  the  rapturous  joy  of  that  first  long  gaze  when  eye  met 
eye,  and  told  without  the  aid  of  words  the  mighty  love  there  was 
between  the  mother  and  the  child  meeting  as  such  for  the  first 
time  in  the  full  sense  of  the  relation.  My  pen  cannot  describe 
it,  neither  should  it  if  it  could,  for  there  are  some  scenes  over 
which  avail  must  be  thrown,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  Edith  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  Gertie's  reception 
of  her,  and  when,  an  hour  later,  Colonel  Schuyler  looked  into 
the  room  he  found  them  fast  asleep,  both  heads  on  the  same 
pillow,  Edith's  arms  around  Gertie's  neck,  and  one  of  Gertie's 
pale,  wan  hands  resting  on  Edith's  face.  This  picture  touched 
the  colonel,  and  he  cried  softly  to  himself  as  .he  stood  gazing  at 


402  GODFREY  AND    GERTIE. 

the  two,  so  like  each  other  in  their  sleep  that  he  wondered  he 
had  never  seen  the  resemblance  before.  Then  he  called  Miss 
Rossiter,  who  came  and  looked,  and  cried  a  little  too  ;  but 
neither  spoke  a  word,  and  after  a  moment's  silence  went  out  to- 
gether, and  closing  the  door  left  them  alone  together,  the 
mother  and  her  child. 


CHAPTER    LXI. 

GODFREY   AND    GERTIE. 

)WARD,  come  here,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  Miss 
Rossiter  said,  in  the  quick,  decided  way  she  had  as- 
sumed since  so  much  had  been  depending  upon  her, 
and  she  had  been  drawn  out  of  herself.  "  Howard,  what  do  you 
mean  to  do  with  Gertie  ?  Will  you  make  her  really  one  of 
your  children,  and  have  her  share  equally  with  them  ?  " 

"  Really,  Christine,  I  have  not  thought;  it's  a  little  too  soon 
for  that.  Why,  yes,  I  rather  think — she  will  share  with  them, — 
yes,  if  Godfrey  marries  Alice,  there  would  then  be  more  reason 
why  Gertie  should  share  equally,  as  Godfrey  would  not  need  so 
much,  and  you  know  I  have  had  some  heavy  losses." 

"  Howard,  don't  be  a  fool.  Godfrey  will  never  marry  Alice, 
nor  anybody  else  except  Gertie  Westbrooke,  and  you  know 
that,  or  ought  to  know  it.  I  learned  it  those  days  I  took  care 
of  him  when  Gertie  was  with  me,  and  I  got  to  liking  her  in 
spite  of  myself.  I  am  not  a  deceitful  woman,  Howard,  and  I 
will  not  say  that  I  am  altogether  satisfied  with  Edith.  It  is  not 
in  my  nature  to  feel  that  people  of  her  rank  in  life  are  fully  my 
equals,  but  I  shall  always  treat  her  well  for  Gertie's  sake  and 
Godfrey's.  I  cannot  understand  it,  but  that  child  has  grown 
strangely  into  my  heart  since  she  has  been  sick  here  in  my 
house.  They  say  we  always  love  what  has  cost  us  trouble  and 
made  us  forget  ourselves,  and  I  think  I  love  her  better  than 
I  have  loved  anything  since  Charlie  died,  and  I  intend  to  make 
lu-r  my  /u-if,  and  if  she  only  would  slay  with  me  I'd  keep  her  so 
gladly.  1  have  told  you  this,  Howard,  so  that  money  need  not 


GODFREY  AND    GERTIE.  403 

stand  between  you  and  your  consent  for  Godfrey  to  make 
Gertie  his  wife." 

Colonel  Schuyler  was  astonished,  and  could  hardly  believe 
that  it  was  Ghristine  Rossi ter  speaking  to  him,  as  this  woman 
spoke,  and  actually  pleading  Gertie's  cause,  and  advising  him 
to  accept  her  as  the  wife  of  his  son.  In  spite  of  Miss  Ressner's 
talk  of  adoption  and  heirship,  he  felt  a  pang  of  regret  when  he 
remembered  the  Creighton  line  of  ancestry,  almost  as  pure  as  his 
own,  and  thought  of  Jenny  Nesbitt,  who  seemed  destined  to  be 
connected  with  him  in  so  many  ways  through  Edith  and  Emma 
and  Godfrey.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  The  star  of  the  Lyles 
was  in  the  ascendant,  and  when,  that  afternoon,  Godfrey  went 
up  to  see  Gertie  for  the  first  time  since  her  return  to  conscious- 
ness, he  had  his  father's  full  consent  to  claim  her  for  his  wife. 

The  colonel  himself  had  told  Godfrey  the  story  of  Gertie's 
birth,  and  Godfrey  had  hurrahed  for  very  joy,  feeling  that  in 
some  way  Gertie  was  thus  brought  nearer  to  him.  He  knew  of 
her  coming  alone  to  him  in  his  illness  and  braving  the  world  be- 
cause she  thought  herself  his  sister.  He  had  faint  reminiscences, 
too,  of  soft  hands  which  cooled  his  burning  brow,  of  loving 
words  breathed  into  his  ear,  and  of  firm,  though  gentle  remon- 
strances and  threats  of  leaving  him,  when  the  vessel  plunged  so 
fearfully  and  he  was  plunging  with  it.  Gertie  had  saved  his  life, 
and  even  when  he  did  not  know  she  was  in  the  room  she  had 
been  constantly  in  his  mind,  and  was  with  him  in  his  desperate 
voyage  over  the  stormy  sea,  where  he  had  so  nearly  been  lost. 
Always,  when  the  waves  were  doing .  their  worst,  there  was  a 
thought  in  his  heart  of  La  Sxur,  and  he  wondered  how  she  was 
coming  through,  and  if  the  window  was  open  in  her  dingy  little 
stateroom.  Hers  was  the  first  name  upon  his  lips  when  he 
awoke  to  consciousness  ;  and  before  he  was  really  able  he  left 
his  room  and  went  to  Miss  Rossiter's,  to  be  near  his  darling  and 
see  her  when  he  chose.  But  she  had  never  known  him  when 
he  bent  over  her  with  fond  words  and  loving  caresses  ;  and  she 
talked  of  him  to  his  face,  and  mourned  sadly  that  he  was  lost, 
and  she  was  left  to  sail  alone  over  the  troubled  waters. 

"  I  am  here,  Gertie.     I  shall  never  leave  you  again,"  he  had 


404  GODFREY  AND   GERTIE. 

said  to  her  once,  when  she  could  not  understand-  his  meaning, 
and  now  he  was  going  to  say  it  again,  with  every  obstacle 
cleared  from  his  path,  and  nothing  to  impede  his  love. 

Gertie  was  sitting  up  and  expecting  him,  but  she  was  not  pre- 
pared for  the  impetuosity  with  which  he  gathered  her  in  his 
arms,  and  hugging  her  so  close  that  her  breath  came  in  quick 
gasps,  carried  her  to  the  mirror,  and  laying  her  white,  thin  face 
beside  his  own,  which,  if  possible,  was  whiter  and  thinner,  bade 
her  see  what  a  "  pair  of  picked  chickens  they  were." 

"  But  we  weathered  it,  Gertie,"  he  said,  "  and  now  we've 
nothing  to  do  but  grow  strong  and  well  again,  and  you  will  be 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  while  I, — well,  Gertie,  I  never  was 
so  happy  in  my  life  as  at  this  moment  when  I  hold  you  thus  and 
kiss  you,  so — and  so  ! " 

He  emphasized  his  words  by  kisses,  which  took  Gertie's 
breath  away,  and  when  she  could  speak  she  said  imploringly, 
"  Please,  Godfrey,  put  me  down.  You  tire,  you  hurt  me." 

Then  he  placed  her  in  her  chair,  and  kneeling  at  her  side, 
held  her  hands  in  his,  and  looking  anxiously  into  her  face,  said, 
"  Forgive  me,  darling,  I  did  not  think  how  weak  you  were,  and 
I  am  so  happy,  for  I  have  father's  consent  for  you  to  tell  me 
yes.  I  really  have,  and  you  are  my  own  forever.  '  Tell  Gertie,' 
father  said,  '  that  I  release  her  from  her  promise  and  welcome 
her  as  my  daughter.'  Will  you  kiss  me  now,  Gertie,  even  if  I 
am  not  a  perfect  gentleman  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  deceiving  me,  Godfrey  ?  "  Gertie  said,  her  lips 
quivering  as  she  thought  how  terrible  it  would  be  to  have  this  new 
cup  of  joy  dashed  from  her  lips  just  as  she  was  ready  to  drink  it. 

"  Deceiving  you  !  No.  Father  did  say  so,  and  Allie  knows 
it,  too  ;  and  fickle,  like  all  her  sex,  will  not  break  her  heart  for 
me,  who,  she  says,  look  like  a  fright  with  my  shaved  head,  and 
high  cheek-bones,  and  loose  clothes.  You  see  the  fever  has 
not  left  me  very  good-looking,  and  Marks,  the  rector  at  Hamp- 
sti-atl,  is  down  at  Uncle  Calvert's,  and  rode  with  Allie  yesterday  ; 
and  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  she  were  yet  to  make  aprons  for 
Mrs.  Van's  babies,  and  carry  soup  to  the  old  lady.  She'll  be  a 
splendid  wife  for  a  minister,  if  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  it." 


GODFREY  AND    GERTIE.  405 

He  had  rattled  on  thus  volubly  for  the  sake  of  giving  Gertie 
time  in  which  to  recover  herself,  and  when  he  saw  that  her  breath 
came  more  naturally  and  the  color  was  dying  away  from  her 
cheeks,  he  returned  to  the  matter  in  question. 

"  Kiss  me,  Gertie,  gentleman  or  not,  and  I  shall  know  you 
are  my  wife." 

He  held  his  face  close  to  hers,  and  Gertie  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  so  they  were  betrothed  at  last ;  and  when, 
half  an  hour  later,  Edith  came  in,  she  found  Gertie  with  her  head 
resting  on  Godfrey's  arm  and  an  expression  of  perfect  peace  upon 
her  face,  while  he  talked  to  her  in  tones  which  no  one  who  had 
ever  known  experimentally  the  meaning  of  love  could  mistake. 

"  Ah,  mother  !  "  he  said,  as  Edith  came  up  to  him.  "  You 
are  really  my  mother  now,  for  Gertie  is  mine,  and  the  Lyles  are 
pretty  well  mixed  with  the  Schuylers,  I  think." 

How  happy  he  was,  and  how  he  hovered  around  Gertie,  seem- 
ing almost  to  devour  her  with  his  eyes  when  his  lips  were  not 
meeting  hers,  and  when  he  told  Miss  Rossiter  the  good  news, 
he  kissed  her,  too,  and  swung  her  round  as  if  she  had  been  a 
top,  and  wanted  to  kiss  his  father,  and  did  kiss  Julia  and  Alice 
both  when  he  went  to  call  upon  them  that  evening,  and  told 
them  he  was  as  good  as  a  married  man. 

Alice  had  given  him  up  since  the  day  Miss  Rossiter  drove 
down  to  see  her,  and  talked  so  affectionately  of  Gertie,  and 
said  nothing  would  please  her  better  than  to  see  her  Godfrey's 
wife.  There  had  been  a  few  tears  in  private,  a  wrench  or  two 
in  her  heart,  and  then  it  was  all  over  ;  for  Allie's  love  had  never 
been  very  strong,  and  but  little  more  than  her  pride  was  wounded 
when  Gertie  was  preferred  to  herself.  Alice  had  one  good  trait, 
— she  did  not  long  harbor  malice  or  resentment;  and  she  re- 
ceived Godfrey  cordially,  and  said  she  hoped  he  would  be  happy, 
and  blushed  rather  prettily  when  he  joked  her  about  the  parson, 
and  said  she  might  possibly  be  his  neighbor  in  Hampstead. 

Two  weeks  from  that  day  the  doors  and  windows  at  Schuyler 
Hill  were  opened  wide,  and  Mrs.  Tifie,  in  a  wild  state  of  ex- 
citement and  expectancy,  was  giving  the  most  contradictory 
orders  to  the  servants,  and  flitting  from  room  to  room  to  see 


4o6  GODFREY  AND    GERTIE. 

that  all  was  in  readiness  for  the  family,  who  were  coming  home 
and  would  be  there  to  dinner.  Everybody  in  Hampsteadknew 
the  story  now,  and  none  liked  Edith  the  less,  but  rather  the 
more,  I  think  ;  while  the  fact  that  Gertie  was  to  marry  Godfrey 
filled  every  one  with  joy,  except  Tom  Barton,  who  came  to  the 
Hill  the  day  we  were  expecting  her,  and,  handing  me  a  bunch 
of  pansies  and  English  violets,  said  : 

"  They  are  for  her  room.  I  always  associate  her  with  English 
violets.  She  is  just  as  sweet  as  they  are,  Heaven  bless  her  !  " 

There  was  a  tremor  in  his  voice  and  his  hand  shook  as  he 
gave  me  the  flowers.  He  was  taking  it  hard,  and  I  pitied  him 
so  much  when  he  said  : 

"  There  is  nothing  in  the  wide  world  for  me  to  live  for  now  ; 
but  I  shall  not  go  back  to  my  cups.  She  helped  make  me  a 
man,  and  I'll  keep  so  for  her  sake ;  but  I  tell  you,  Ettie,  it  is 
pretty  tough  sledding,  and  there  is  a  lump  in  my  heart  as  big  as 
a  bass  drum.  I  wish  I  were  dead ;  I  do,  upon  my  word." 

How  sweet  the  perfume  of  those  violets  was,  and  how  eagerly 
Gertie  inhaled  it  when  she  came  at  last,  and  I  took  her  to  her  room. 

"Tom  brought  them.  He  says  they  are  like  you,"  I  said, 
while  a  shadow  flitted  over  Gertie's  face,  for  she  knew  just  how 
much  Tom  Barton  loved  her,  and  felt  in  part  the  burden  weigh- 
ing him  down  so  heavily. 

It  was  curious  to  watch  Edith  as  she  came  back  to  her  home, 
with  something  of  humility  and  fear  in  her  manner,  as  if  she 
dreaded  the  meeting  of  her  old  acquaintance  now  that  they 
knew  of  the  deception  which  had  been  practised  so  long,  and  it 
was  equally  curious  to  see  how  the  colonel  sustained  and  upheld 
her,  and  stood  by  her,  and  treated  her  with  a  consideration  and 
increased  deference  and  tenderness  which  would  have  precluded 
anything  like  coolness  or  indifference  on  the  part  of  his  friends 
toward  his  wife  had  they  felt  disposed  to  manifest  it,  which  they 
were  not.  Edith  was  too  popular  ;  too  much  a  favorite  with  all 
classes  at  Hampstead  for  anything  except  positive  wrong  to  make 
a  difference  now  ;  and  the  very  first  evening  of  her  return  many  of 
her  old  acquaintances  came  to  see  her  and  offer  their  congratula- 
tions for  the  finding  of  her  daughter,  and  that  daughter  Gertie. 


THE    WEDDING.  407 

How  happy  we  were  that  night  when  Edith  and  Gertie  sat 
together  upon  the  sofa,  the  daughter's  head  resting  upon  the 
mother's  shoulder,  and  the  colonel  and  Godfrey  standing  behind 
and  bending  protectingly  over  them.  Even  Julia,  who  had 
come  with  the  party,  was  unusually  gracious,  and  told  me  con- 
fidentially that  though  she  would  have  advised  secrecy  with  re- 
gard to  Gertie's  father,  she  was  tolerably  well  satisfied  with 
matters  as  they  were,  especially  as  Major  Camden  did  not  care, 
and  she  should  soon  be  away  from  it  all. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Mr.  Marks  had  no  cause  to 
complain  of  empty  pews,  for  every  place  was  filled  long  before 
the  bell  sounded  its  last  note  and  the  Schuyler  carriage  drew  up 
before  the  door.  It  did  not  matter  that  the  villagers  had  seen 
Edith  and  Gertie  and  Godfrey  hundreds  of  times,  there  was 
about  them  now  a  new  element  of  interest,  and  the  people 
came  from  other  churches  to  see  the  wonderful  sight.  But  they 
were  in  part  doomed  to  disappointment,  for  Gertie  was  still  too 
weak  to  venture  out,  while  Godfrey  would  not  go  without  her, 
and  so,  only  Edith  was  there,  her  beautiful  head  drooping  a  lit- 
tle, and  her  eyes  cast  timidly  down  as  she  walked  to  her  accus- 
tomed place  and  dropped  upon  her  knees,  where  she  remained 
a  long,  long  time,  while  all  through  the  church  there  was  a  sol- 
emn hush  as  the  people  watched  her,  many  with  tearful  eyes, 
and  all  with  a  feeling  that  they  knew  the  nature  of  her  prayers 
and  sympathized  with  her. 


CHAPTER   LXII. 

THE    AVEDDING. 

took  place  early  in  October,  on  the  morning  when  I 
commenced  this  story ;  and  when  from  my  chamber- 
window  I  saw  the  bridal  train  go  by,  and  heard  the 
pealing  of  the  merry  marriage-bells,  and  the  shouting  of  the 
children  from  the  mission-school,  who  strewed  the  bride's  path 
from  the  carriage  to  the  church  with  flowers,  and  to  whom  God- 


408  THE   WEDDING. 

frcy  promised  a  fete  upon  the  lawn,  with  all  the  candy  and  ice- 
cream they  could  eat,  when  he  returned  from  his  journey. 
Never  before,  nor  since,  was  the  church  so  full  as  it  was  that 
lovely  October  morning,  when  the  maples  were  turning  scarlet, 
and  the  walnut  trees  were  golden  in  the  autumnal  sunshine, 
which  fell  so  softly  and  warmly,  as  if  in  blessing,  on  the  beauti- 
ful young  bride  and  the  perfectly  happy  groom. 

There  was  a  trip  to  the  West  as  far  as  Denver,  and  then  one 
day  in  November,  the  bridal  pair  came  back  to  Hampstead, 
where  the  bells  rang  merrily  in  honor  of  their  return  ;  and  the 
boys  of  the  mission-school,  remembering  the  promised  candy 
and  ice-cream,  made  a  bonfire  in  the  street,  and  hurrahed  lustily 
for  Mr.  Godfrey  Schuyler,  and  a  tiger,  too  ! 

They  had  their  fete,  and  candy  and  cream,  and  ate  it  in  the. 
November  rain  ;  but  not  until  after  the  grand  party  at  the  Hill, 
which,  for  elegance  and  expenditure,  far  outdid  the  one  given  a 
few  years  before,  when  Edith  was  the  bride,  and  Gertie  the  little 
unknown  girl,  watching  the  ladies  as  they  came,  and  wishing 
that  she  was  one  of  them. 

She  was  one  of  them  now,  or  rather  the  one  around  whom 
everything  else  centred,  and  I  never  saw  a  creature  so  dazzlingly 
beautiful  as  she  was  in  her  bridal  robes,  when,  with  Godfrey  at 
her  side,  she  stood  to  receive  the  guests.  Everybody  who  had 
been  bidden  was  there, — except  the  Bartons,  from  whom  there 
came  a  note  of  regret,  saying  that  "  sudden  and  severe  illness 
in  the  family  would  keep  them  at  home." 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?  Not  Rosamond,  for  she  wrote  the  regret," 
Gertie  said ;  and  then,  as  her  eyes  met  mine,  we  both  thought 
of  Tom,  who  had  never  been  seen  in  town  since  the  morning 
of  Gertie's  bridal. 

He  was  present  at  the  ceremony  and  stood  where  he  could  look 
in  Gertie's  face,  and  it  was  said  by  those  who  watched  him  that 
at  the  words,  "  I,  Gertrude,  take  thee,  Godfrey,  to  be  my  wedded 
husband,"  he  put  up  his  hand  and  started  as  if  smitten  heavily. 
He  came  to  me  after  it  was  over,  and  said,  in  a  half-laughing, 
half-serious  way,  that  there  was  a  feeling  in  his  stomach  as  if  a 
hornet's  nest  had  been  stirred  up,  and  each  individual  hornet 


THE    WEDDING.  4°9 

was  doing  its  best  to  sting  him  !  I  know  Gertie  thought  of  him 
many  times  that  night  when  she  moved  a  queen  amid  the  bril- 
liant throng,  where  only  one  vied  with  her  at  all  in  point  of 
loveliness,  and  that  one,  her  mother,  who,  with  every  shadow 
lifted  from  her  heart,  seemed  to  have  recovered  all  the  beauty 
of  her  early  womanhood.  Edith's  dress  was  a  heavy  silk  of  a 
creamy  tint,  with  overskirt  and  bertha  of  soft,  rich  lace,  while  at 
Gertie's  request  she  wore  her  hair  in  curls,  arranged  at  the 
back  of  her  head,  and  held  by  a  coral  comb.  Coral  was  very 
becoming  to  Edith,  and  she  looked  so  young  and  handsome 
that  none  would  ever  have  dreamed  that  she  was  mother  to  the 
bride.  They  were  like  two  sisters,  and  the  colonel  might  have 
passed  for  the  father  of  them  both.  He  seemed  very  proud  of 
Edith,  and  in  his  eyes,  which  followed  her  constantly,  there  was 
a  world  of  love  and  tenderness,  which  told  how  dear  she  was  to 
him,  even  now  that  everything  pertaining  to  her  early  life  was 
known  to  him  and  the  world. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  the  dancing  began  to  flag  a  little, 
and  the  New  York  belles  had  one  after  another  tried  Gertie's  new 
Steinway,  Edith  was  persuaded  to  take  her  seat  at  the  piano. 

"  Give  us  one  of  those  sweet,  plaintive  little  airs  you  sang  at 
Oakwood,"  Godfrey  said,  as  he  bent  over  her. 

Edith  had  never  tried  so  much  as  a  single  note  since  the  day 
when  she  learned  from  her  mother  that  her  daughter  was  alive, 
but  something  told  her  she  could  sing  now,  for  the  iron  fingers 
were  gone  forever ;  and  selecting  a  German  song,  which  a  year 
before  would  have  been  far  beyond  her  power,  she  began  to 
sing, — her  voice,  which  had  once  been  so  rich,  and  full,  and 
strong,  gathering  strength,  and  depth,  and  power  as  she  pro- 
gressed, and  soaring  up,  and  up,  and  up,  ever  clear,  ever  sweet, 
ever  ringing,  until  the  whole  house  was  full  of  melody,  and  the 
guests  came  flocking  in  to  hear. 

"  Edith,  my  darling,"  and  "  mamma,  mamma,"  were  said  in. 
the  same  breath  of  astonishment  as  the  music  ceased,  and 
Gertie  and  the  colonel  laid  a  hand  on  Edith's  shoulder.  "  I 
never  dreamed  you  had  a  voice  like  that.  I  am  prouder  of  you 
to  night  than  ever  I  was  before,"  the  colonel  said,  as  at  a  sign 
18 


410  MARY  ROGERS1  LETTER    TO  EDITH. 

from  Edith,  who  was  looking  very  white,  he  led  her  away  from 
the  piano  and  out  upon  a  balcony,  where  she  stood  a  moment 
to  recover  herself,  and  force  down  the  rapid  beating  of  her 
heart  ere  she  told  him  why  she  could  not  sing  before,  and  that 
with  the  confession  of  everything,  and  the  finding  of  Gertie,  her 
glorious  voice  had  come  back  to  her  again. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 
MARY  ROGERS'  LETTER  TO  EDITH. 

1 1 VE  days  after  the  bridal  party  at  Schuyler  Hill  Edith 
and  Gertie  sat  together  in  the  boudoif  of  the  latter 
talking  of  the  Providence  which  had  thrown  them  so 
constantly  together,  and  of  the  way  in  which  they  were  at  last 
made  known  to  each  other. 

"  I  have  often  thought  of  the  night  Mrs.  Rogers  died,"  Edith 
said,  and  I  think  there  must  have  been  something  on  her  mind 
which  she  wished  to  tell  me  about  you.  Do  you  suppose  she 
could  have  known  you  were  my  child  ?  " 

"  No,  she  could  not  have  kept  it  so  many  years,"  Gertie  said, 
"and  yet  I  can  remember  many  things  she  used  to  say  about 
my  parentage,  which  I  interpret  differently  now  from  what  I 
did  when  my  thoughts  were  all  in  another  channel." 

"  One  would  have  supposed  that  knowing  as  she  must  have 
known  her  liability  to  sudden  death  she  would  have  left  some 
writing  which  might  throw  light  upon  your  history.  You  are 
sure  she  did  not  ?  "  Edith  said,  and  Gertie  replied  : 

41  Yes,  sure  ;  or  at  least  I  think  I  am.  Norah  and  I  looked 
over  everything  carefully  at  the  time,  and  there  was  nothing 
but  a  bundle  of  old  letters  and  receipts." 

41  Did  you  destroy  them  ?  "  Edith  asked,  and  Gertie  an- 
swered her  : 

44  No,  I  have  them  still  in  the  box  where  I  keep  the  sou- 
venirs of  my  childhood.  I'll  bring  them,  if  you  like,  though  I 
am  quite  sure  that  there  is  nothing  in  them." 

The  box  was  brought  and  opened,  and  Gertie  began  to  ex- 


MARY  ROGERS'  LETTER    TO  EDITH.  4" 

amine  the  papers  more  carefully  than  ever  before.  There  were 
dressmakers'  bills  and  grocers'  bills  and  landlords'  bills,  and 
music  bills  for  Gertie  and  letters  to  "  John  Rogers,  Birmingham," 
and  then  Gertie  came  upon  a  fresher-looking  envelope,  the  seal  of 
which  had  not  been  broken,  and  on  which,  in  Mary  Rogers'  hand, 
was  written  :  "  For  Mrs.  Edith  Schuyler,  if  I  die  suddenly." 

"  Oh-h — yes — here — it  must  be  this  ?  "  Gertie  gasped,  as 
she  passed  the  package  to  Edith,  whose  heart  beat  with  an  un- 
defined dread  lest  after  all  there  might  be  some  mistake  and 
her  darling  be  wrested  from  her. 

"  Shall  I  read  it,  or  you  ?  "  she  said,  and  Gertie  replied  : 

"  You  ; — but  read  aloud,  if  you  please.  I  cannot  wait  to 
know." 

Edith  could  not  read  it  aloud,  and  Gertie  did  not  wait,  but 
leaning  over  her  mother's  shoulder  read  the  letter  with  her.  It 
was  as  follows  : 

"  HAMPSTEAD,  April  10,  18 — . 

"  MRS.  COL.  SCHUYLER — MADAME  :  Warned  by  a  twinge 
in  my  heart  and  about  my  vitals  that  I  may  be  taken  away 
suddenly,  I  am  going  to  commit  to  paper  the  true  history  of 
Gertrude  Westbrooke,  the  girl  known  as  my  adopted  child. 
Mrs.  Schuyler,  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  young  girl, — who  came 
one  day  with  her  mother  to  a  dreary  lodging  in  Dorset  Street, 
London  ?  They  had  the  back  rooms  looking  into  a  dirty  court, 
and  the  girl  had  a  baby  born  there,  a  little  girl  baby,  with  eyes 
like  robin's  eggs. 

"  There  was  a  housemaid,  who  waited  on  the  ladies  in  No. 
—  ;  her  name  was  Mary  Stover,  and  she  admired  the  young  lady 
so  much,  and  was  curious  about  her,  especially  after  the  birth  of 
the  baby.  That  housemaid  was  me,  and  the  lady  \\a.syou,  whom 
your  mother  called  Heloise.  She  was  Mrs.  Fordham  then,  and 
I  did  not  like  her  much,  and  after  I  accidentally  heard  what  she 
said  to  you  about  sending  the  child  away,  I  kept  a  watch  on 
her. 

"  I  was  going  to  your  room  with  a  jug  of  water,  and  heard  it 
all,  and  saw  her  the  night  she  went  out  with  a  bundle  under  her 


412  MARY  ROGERS'   LETTER    TO  EDITH. 

arm.  I  was  sure  the  bundle  was  the  baby,  and,  when  she  got 
back,  I  let  myself  out  on  to  that  little  balcony  under  your  win- 
dow, and  waited  till  I  heard  her  tell  you  where  she  had  taken 
the  child.  There  certainly  was  a  Providence  in  it  that  I  had  a 
sister  nurse  in  that  very  hospital,  and,  to  make  sure  your  mother 
told  you  true,  I  got  leave  to  go  next  day  to  see  my  sister. 

"By  a  little  management,  I  found  that  a  girl  baby  had  been 
left  there  the  night  before,  with  ffeloise  pinned  on  its  dress,  as 
Mrs.  P'ordham  said,  and  that  it  was  further  marked  on  the  bos- 
om with  a  drop  of  blood.  I  got  Anne  to  show  the  baby  to  me 
and  knew  it  for  the  same  I  had  seen  in  your  room.  You  re- 
member I  tended  it  an  hour  or  more  once. 

"  I  love  children,  and  this  one  interested  me  more  than  I  can 
tell ;  and  I  said  to  myself  I'll  keep  watch  of  it,  and  the  mother, 
too,  and  some  time  maybe  I  can  unravel  the  mystery  and 
bring  them  together.  From  what  I  overheard,  I  believed  you 
had  been  married,  and  that  your  husband  was  dead,  and  that 
was  all  I  knew  of  him.  But  I  pitied  you,  and  loved  the  child, 
and  without  telling  Anne  why,  I  made  her  promise  to  be  very 
kind  to  the  little  one. 

Mother  lived  in  Dorset  Street,  too,  and  as  she  was  very  lone- 
some from  week's  end  to  week's  end  without  us,  I  took  the 
plan  to  have  her  take  the  baby  for  ours.  It  was  hard  work  to 
bring  her  to  it,  and  Anne  opposed  it,  too ;  but  something 
seemed  to  push  me  on  and  say  that  it  must  be  done,  and  I  got 
her  consent,  and  she  took  Heloise  to  our  house  in  No.  — , 
where  she  was  just  like  a  little  sunbeam,  and  it  was  hard  to  tell 
which  loved  her  the  most,  mother,  or  Anne,  or  me.  I  claimed 
her  for  mine,  and  dressed  her  with  my  wages,  and  meant  to 
bring  her  up  above  what  we  were,  if  I  could.  When  you  left 
Dorset  Street  I  lost  track  of  you  for  a  while,  but  that  only  made 
me  love  baby  more.  Soon  after  you  left  I  got  another  place, 
and  a  better  one.  I  was  waiting-maid  to  a  Mrs.  Westbrooke, 
who  lived  in  a  very  fine  place.  She,  too,  had  a  baby  girl  named 
Gertrude,  and,  when  it  died  suddenly  of  croup,  I  thought  she 
would  have  mourned  herself  to  death  for  it. 

"  About  that  time  mother  went  oft  with  cholera,  and  then  I 


MARY  ROGERS1  LETTER  TO  EDITH.  4*3 

told  Mrs.  Westbrooke  about  my  baby,  and  asked  if  I  might 
bring  it  and  show  it  to  her.  You  don't  know  how  pretty  she 
was,  with  her  golden-red  hair  curling  all  over  her  head,  and  her 
sweet  blue  eyes.  My  lady  got  very  fond  of  her  the  three  days 
she  stayed  with  me,  and,  when  i  spoke  of  carrying  it  away,  she 
said : 

'"I  do  not  believe  I  can  let  baby  go.  It  seems  like  my 
own  lost  darling.  Will  you  let  me  have  her  ?  ' 

"  '  For  your  own  ? '  I  said,  and  she  answered  : 

"  '  Yes,  for  my  own.' 

"This  was  just  what  suited  me, — to  see  my  pet  grow  up  a 
lady, — and  I  told  her  yes,  and  as  the  master  did  not  oppose  it 
more  than  to  say  'that  he  did  not  care  especially  for  other 
people's  brats,  and  this  one  must  be  kept  out  of  his  way,'  it 
was  settled  that  baby  should  stay,  and  I  do  believe  my  mistress 
came  to  love  it  like  her  own.  She  gave  it  her  lost  baby's  name, 
and  had  it  christened  '  Gertrude  Heloise  Westbrooke,'  so  it 
sure  would  have  a  name.  She  was  a  sweet-tempered  lady, 
but  weak  and  nervous  like.  I  think  she  had  consumption,  for 
nothing  in  particular  appeared  to  ail  her,  only  she  was  tired  like 
all  the  time,  and  never  could  sleep  nor  get  rested,  and  at  last 
she  died,  and  left  an  annuity  of  forty  pounds  a  year  to  little 
Gertie,  and  said  I  was  to  have  the  care  of  her. 

"  About  a  year  after  her  death  the  master  married  a  fashion- 
able, fussy  little  woman  from  Glasgow,  who  disliked  chil- 
dren worse  than  he  did,  and  never  noticed  Gertie  in  any  way 
after  she  found  out  that  she  was  not  Mr.  Westbrooke's  own. 
I  was  about  to  be  married  myself,  and  asked  the  master  if  I 
might  have  the  child.  He  was  more  than  willing,  and  so  I  took 
her  to  my  own  comfortable  home  on  the  second  floor  of  a  house 
in  what  is  now  Abingdon  Road,  but  was  then  Newland  Street. 
All  this  time  I  had  not  been  able  to  track  you,  though  I 
never  went  out  that  I  did  not  look  for  you  ;  and  many's  the  time 
I  drew  my  little  girl  to  the  gardens  of  Kensington  and  even  to 
Hyde  Park,  where  I  sat  by  the  hour  watching  the  people  as  they 
went  by  in  hopes  of  seeing  you.  But  I  never  did,  and  I  had 
almost  given  it  up,  when  one  day  in  October  I  went  into  a  linen- 


414  MARY  ROGERS*  LETTER  TO  EDITH. 

draper's  on  High  Street  to  get  a  new  slip  for  my  darling.  The 
girls  were  all  very  busy,  and  I  had  to  wait  a  bit,  and  was  look- 
ing at  the  dresses  in  the  window  when  I  heard  some  one  say, 
'  Isn't  she  beautiful  ? '  and  looking  up  I  saw  you  coming  in. 
I  knew  you  in  a  moment,  though  you  was  handsomer  than 
ever,  and  looking  well  and  strong.  In  my  excitement  I  forgot 
what  I  had  come  to  get,  but  stood  watching  you,  my  heart  beat- 
ing so  loud  I  was  afraid  you  might  hear  it. 

"  I  do  not  remember  what  you  bought,  but  you  ordered  it 
sent  to  '  Mrs.  Dr.  Barrett's,  No.  —  Caledonia  Street,'  and  then 
left  the  shop,  while  I  followed  close  behind.  You  turned  into 
that  shady  lane  or  road  which  leads  past  the  Holland  House  to 
Bayswater,  and  I  kept  as  near  you  as  I  could  without  attracting 
your  attention.  Once  you  sat  down  under  a  tree  as  if  you  were 
tired,  and  going  a  little  further  on  I  sat  down  too,  and  watched 
you  when  you  did  not  know  it.  There  was  a  pretty  little  girl 
about  Gertie's  age  playing  near,  and  I  remember  you  called 
her  to  you.  and  smoothed  her  curls,  and  caressed  her  little 
hands,  and  asked  her  for  her  name,  and  when  she  went  back  to 
her  nurse  there  was  a  sad,  sorry  look  in  your  eyes  and  on  your 
face,  and  I  said  to  myself,  'Is  she  thinking  of  the  baby,  I  won 
der?' 

"  I  knew  from  Anne  that  a  woman  in  deep  black,  with  her 
vail  drawn  closely  over  her  face  had  been  to  the  hospital  to  in- 
quire after  it,  and  had  seemed  relieved  when  told  it  had  been 
taken  by  a  woman  who  was  sure  to  be  kind  to  it.  I  was  cer- 
tain the  lady  in  black  was  your  mother,  but  could  not  tell 
whether  she  had  ever  inquired  again  for  the  child.  I  meant  to 
know  for  sure  where  you  lived,  and  if  Caledonia  Street  was  your 
home  ;  so  when  you  got  up,  which  you  did  after  a  time,  I  got  up 
too,  and  kept  close  behind  till  you  reached  Netting  Hill  station. 
I  was  standing  by  you  when  you  got  your  ticket,  and  took  the 
same  carriage  you  did,  and  alighting  at  the  same  station,  fol- 
lowed you  to  your  very  door,  and  saw  you  go  in  like  one  who 
was  at  home.  There  was  a  baker's  shop  near  by,  and  I  bought 
some  bread  and  buns  which  I  did  not  want,  and  questioned  the 
girl  who  waited  upon  me  with  regard  to  the  houses  in  the  neigh- 


MARY  ROGERS'  LETTER   TO  EDITH.  415 

borhood,  pretending  I  was  looking  for  one  to  rent.  In  this  way 
I  learned  that  the  Mrs.  Dr.  Barrett  who  lived  at  No.  —  took 
lodgers,  and  had  a  beautiful  daughter,  a  Miss  Lyle,  the  child  of 
a  first  marriage,  the  girl  supposed,  as  old  Dr.  Barrett,  who  had 
owned  the  place  for  a  long  time,  had  only  been  married  to  the 
present  Mrs.  Barrett  two  or  three  years  when  he  died.  So 
much  I  learned,  and  then  I  left  the  place  for  home,  determining 
to  keep  track  of  you  after  that,  and  not  lose  sight  of  you  again. 
I  knew  when  you  were  governess  at  Allanbanke,  and  when  you 
played  the  organ  in church,  and  used  sometimes  on  Sun- 
days to  take  Gertie  there  to  listen  to  the  music,  but  never  gave 
her  a  hint  as  to  who  the  musician  was.  There  was  a  kind  of 
pleasant  excitement  in  watching  you  and  feeling  that  I  had  your 
secret,  and  I  enjoyed  it  to  the  full. 

"  At  last  you  were  lost  to  me  for  a  while, — I  nursed  my  hus- 
band in  his  last  sickness,  but  greatly  to  my  delight  you  unex- 
pectedly turned  up  again  at  the  very  house  where  my  cousin 
Norah  was  living  as  lady's-maid, — at  Oakwood,  you  know.  I 
saw  you  there  one  evening  when  I  was  calling  on  Norah,  and 
learned  that  you  were  Mrs.  Sinclair's  companion,  and  was 
going  abroad  with  her.  As  Norah,  too,  was  to  go  with  her  mis- 
tress, I  was  certain  to  know  when  you  returned,  and  I  did,  and 
saw  you  dressed  for  dinner  one  day,  and  thought  you  the  most 
beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw.  I  was  a  widow  then.  My  hus- 
band had  been  dead  some  time,  but  he  had  left  me  quite  com- 
fortable for  a  woman  of  my  class,  while  Gertie's  annuity  was 
sufficient  for  her.  I  was  anxious  that  she  should  have  a  good 
education,  and  I  tried  to  bring  her  up  a  lady  so  far  as  I  knew 
myself.  Just  what  I  intended  to  do,  or  whether  I  should  ever 
let  you  know  of  her  existence,  had  now  become  a  matter  of 
some  doubt,  for  I  loved  the  girl  too  well  to  part  with  her  will- 
ingly. She  was  the  very  apple  of  my  eye,  and  I  said  unless 
something  happens  to  me,  or  her  mother  marries  rich,  I  will 
keep  the  secret  all  my  life.  Still  I  liked  to  be  near  you, — to 
know  just  what  you  were  doing,  and  so  I  applied  to  your 
mother  for  apartments,  with  what  success  you  know.  Then 
Colonel  Schuyler  came,  and  Norah  told  me  of  your  probable 


4i6  MARY  ROGERS'  LETTER  TO  EDITH. 

marriage  with  him,  and  I  had  a  great  battle  with  duty  and  my 
love  for  little  Gertie.  The  first  told  me  that  when  you  was  in 
a  position  to  do  for  the  child  what  I  never  could,  I  ought  to 
give  her  up,  while  the  last  said  I  never  could  ;  she  was  all  the 
world  to  me,  and  I  decided  to  keep  her  a  spell  at  least,  espe- 
cially as  through  Norah  it  was  so  arranged  that  I  was  to  go  to 
America  when  you  did.  In  any  event  I  should  have  followed 
you  after  a  while,  and  I  thought  it  a  special  Providence  which 
made  my  going  with  you  so  easy.  You  can  imagine  the  inter- 
est I  have  felt  in  you  and  everything  belonging  to  you,  and  how 
at  times,  when  I  saw  my  darling  snubbed  by  the  young  ladies 
at  the  Hill,  I  have  been  tempted  to  claim  her  right  to  be  there 
as  their  equal  and  companion. 

"  I  never  could  tell  whether  Colonel  Schuyler  knew  that  such 
a  child  ever  had  existence.  If  he  did  not,  and  your  passing  for 
Miss  Lyle  instead  of  Mrs.  made  me  suspect  that  he  did  not,  I 
thought  it  would  be  a  cruel  thing  for  me  to  tell  it  to  him,  and 
that  of  itself  might  have  kept  me  from  it,  even  if  I  had  loved 
Gertie  less.  If  it  was  not  for  this  frequent  pain  which  warns 
me  of  sudden  death,  I  should  perhaps  keep  the  secret  forever  ; 
but  I  must  not  leave  my  little  girl  alone  if  anything  happens  to 
me,  and  so  I  write  it  down,  begging  you  to  take  her  and  do  jus- 
tice to  her,  for  I  swear  to  Heaven  she  is  the  child  born  in  Dor- 
set Street,  Jan.  — ,  18 — ,  of  the  young  woman  Heloise  or  Edith 
Lyle,  whose  mother  called  herself  Mrs.  Fordham,  and  left  the 
baby  on  the  steps  of  the Street  Hospital. 

"  Perhaps  you  need  not  confess  the  truth  to  your  husband,  if 
he  does  not  already  know  it,  but  you  can  at  least  adopt  Gertie, 
and  treat  her  as  your  own,  and  this  I  beg  of  you  to  do. 

"  And  now  I  have  told  you  all  I  know.  Who  Gertie's  father 
was,  or  where  he  died,  is  a  secret  to  me  ;  only  this  is  sure,  the 
girl  known  as  Gertie  Westbrooke  is  your  own  daughter,  and  may 
God  deal  with  you  and  prosper  you  according  as  you  deal  with 
her  when  I  am  gone. 

"  Written  this  day  at  Hampstead,  and  sworn  to  solemnly  by 
me  before  the  Eye  which  sees  me,  and  which  knows  what  I  say 
is  true.  MARY  ROGERS." 


MARY  ROGERS'  LETTER  TO  EDITH.  41? 

Had  Edith  needed  proof  of  Gertie's  identity,  she  had  it 
in  this  letter,  but  she  did  not.  and  clasping  the  beautiful  girl  in 
her  arms,  she  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears,  moaning  softly, 
"  My  darling,  my  baby ;  it  seems  like  a  dream,  and  God  has 
been  so  good  to  keep  you  all  the  time  and  bring  you  at  last  to 
me.  Oh,  if  mother  could  have  known  !  She  loved  you  from 
the  time  you  went  to  lodge  with  her  in  London." 

"  Mamma,"  Gertie  said  suddenly,  "  she  did  know  !  I  am 
sure  of  it,  or  she  must  have  guessed.  It  was  the  night  she  died, 
when  I  was  sitting  with  her,  and  accidentally  mentioned  my 
birthmark, — that  drop  of  blood.  I  remember  how  excited  she 
grew,  and  how  hard  she  tried  to  tell  me  something,  but  could 
not.  It  must  have  been  her  suspicion  of  the  truth." 

"  Perhaps  so.  I  would  like  to  believe  she  knew  it,"  Edith 
answered,  and  then  she  told  her  daughter  of  the  Lyles  across 
the  sea  in  Alnwick  ;  the  sweet-faced  old  lady,  and  the  bare- 
armed  Jenny,  who  had  so  shocked  and  disgusted  her.  Gertie 
was  interested  in  the  grandmother  at  once,  and  proposed  writ- 
ing to  her  immediately,  and  telling  her  that  the  son  whom  she 
had  mourned  so  long  had  left  a  child  who  would  some  day  find 
her  in  her  humble  home,  and  call  her  grandmamma. 

This  plan  Edith  did  not  oppose,  but  before  Gertie  could  write 
there  came  a  letter  from  Robert  Macpherson,  saying  that  Mrs. 
Lyle  was  dead  and  the  cottage  vacant,  for  Mr.  Nesbit  had  taken 
his  wife  and  children  to  the  north  of  Scotland,  where  his  boy- 
hood was  passed.  As  Gertie  had  no  particular  interest  in  Jen- 
ny, her  letter  was  not  written,  but  through  her  influence  pro- 
vision was  made  for  the  education  of  Jennie's  children,  espe- 
cially the  boy,  who  bore  Godfrey's  name. 
18* 


4i8  AND  LAST. 

CHAPTER  LXIV., 

% 

AND    LAST. 

|HE  Schuylers  all  remained  in  Hampstead  the  winter 
after  Gertie's  marriage,  and  our  little  town  was  the 
pleasanter  and  gayer  for  it.  Only  one  sad  thing  oc- 
curred,— and  that,  the  death  of  poor  Tom,  which  took  place 
about  Christmas  time,  when  we  were  hanging  our  garlands  of 
evergreens  in  the  church  and  making  ready  for  our  annual  festi- 
val. I  was  sitting  by  Gertie  working  upon  the  same  wreath, 
when  the  news  was  brought  to  us,  and  I  saw  the  tears,  which 
came  with  a  rush  to  her  eyes,  and  knew  she  was  thinking  of  the 
hopeless  love  which  had,  no  doubt,  shortened  poor  Tom's  life. 

"  Tell  Gertie,"  he  said  to  his  sister,  when  the  death-sweat  was 
on  his  brow,  and  his  utterance  was  thick  and  indistinct ;  "  tell 
Gertie  I  loved  her  till  the  last,  and  blessed  her  with  my  dying 
breath,  for  she  helped  make  me  a  man.  But  for  her  I  should 
fill  a  drunkard's  grave  and  meet  a  drunkard's  doom.  She 
warned  me  of  my  peril ;  she  led  me  back  from  the  brink  of 
ruin  ;  and  if  I  am  saved,  as  I  hope  to  be,  I  shall  be  a  star  in 
her  crown  of  glory,  as  the  sinner  whom  she  converted  from  his 
evil  ways.  Heaven  bless  her,  and  Godfrey,  too ;  they  are  worthy 
of  each  other." 

These  were  Tom's  last  words,  and  Gertie  cried  as  if  her  heart 
would  break  when  Rosamond  repeated  them  to  her  the  week 
after  Tom's  funeral  when  she  came  to  say  good-by.  They 
were  going  away  from  the  Ridge  House,  Rosaiflond  said,  and 
the  place  was  for  sale.  She  wished  Godfrey  would  buy  it ;  she 
wq^d  rather  see  him  and  Gertie  there  than  strangers,  who  had 
never  known  or  cared  for  her  and  her  mother. 

The  idea  of  a  home  of  her  own  was  a  pleasant  one  to  Gertie, 
and  a  few  days  after  Godfrey  rode  up  to  the  "Ridge  to  confer 
with  Mrs.  Barton.  But  another  had  been  before  him  and  bought 
the  place,  and  some  time  in  February  was  to  take  possession. 

Godfrey's  horse  never  galloped  a  distance  of  two  miles  and 


AND  LAST.  419 

a  half  more  swiftly  than  on  that  day  when  his  rider  was  charged 
with  so  important  news. 

"  Gertie,  Gertie,  I  say,  where  are  you  ?  Look  here ! "  Jje 
exclaimed,  as  he  bolted  into  the  room  where  she  was  sitting. 
"  Guess  how  the  rector  proposes  to  keep  Lent !  What  cross  is 
he  going  to  bear  ! " 

Gertie  could  only  look  at  him  in  surprise,  while  he  went  on  : 

"  He  has  bought  the  Ridge  House,  and  is  going  to  take  a 
wife,  just  before  Ash-Wednesday  !  Think  of  Alice  Creighton 
running  a  sewing  society  and  having  a  church  sociable  ! " 

It  was  as  Godfrey  said,  Alice  was  to  be  Rev.  Mrs.  Marks, 
and  live  at  the  Ridge  House,  which  her  money  bought,  and  the 
fitting  up  of  which  she  came  to  superintend  a  few  days  after  the 
story  was  out.  She  had  written  to  me  asking  permission  to  stop 
with  us  while  she  remained  in  Hampstead,  and  I  was  expecting 
the  little  lady,  when  both  Gertie  and  Godfrey  interfered,  and 
begged  so  hard  for  her  to  stop  with  them  that  she  yielded  to 
their  entreaties  and  went  to  Schtiyler  Hill,  where  Godfrey  nearly 
teased  her  life  out  of  her,  and  was  far  more  attentive  to  her  than 
he  had  been  during  the  short  period  of  his  engagement.  Even 
Mr.  Marks  himself  was  scarcely  more  interested  than  Godfrey 
in  the  house,  which  Alice  furnished  in  accordance  with  her  own 
extravagant  notions. 

"  It  was  not  as  if  she  was  poor  and  dependent  upon  her  hus- 
band's-salary,"  she  said,  and  so  she  made  a  little  palace  of  a 
home  for  her  future  lord,  who  assented  to  whatever  she  sug- 
gested, and  seemed  so"  excited  and  absent-minded  after  she  was 
gone,  that  we  were  glad  when  toward  the  last  of  February  a 
young  student*from  New  York  came  up  to  officiate  at  St.  Luke's 
while  the  rector  took  a  short  vacation. 

He  was  absent  nearly  two  weeks, — and  when  he  came  h^k 
to  us  Alice  was  with  him,  and  astonished  us  all  with  her  wonaer- 
ful  outfit,  her  taU  ruffs  which  reached  to  her  ears,  dresses  which 
trailed  a  yard,  sleeveless  jackets  of  every  device  and  color,  and 
her  hair,  gotten  up  in  a  most  remarkable  manner.  Ske  said 
that  she  married  Mr.  Marks,  and  not  his  people,  consequently 
nothing  more  must  be  expected  of  her  as  Mrs.  Marks  than  she 


420  AND  LAST. 

had  been  willing  to  render  as  Miss  Creighton.  But  Alice  was 
fond  of  "running  things,"  as  Godfrey  called  it,  and  she  had  not 
been  with  us  a  month  before  she  was  head  and  front  of  the 
sewing-school  for  the  poor  children,  and  first  manager  of  the 
Church  Home,  and  secretary  of  the  temperance  club  for  the 
young  men  of  the  working  class,  and  had  established  a  reading- 
room  which  she  controlled  entirely.  Indeed  she  seemed  in  a 
fair  way  to  revolutionize  the  town ;  and  though  she  never  ap- 
proached to  anything  like  familiarity  with  her  husband's  par- 
ishioners, she  was  far  more  popular  and  better  liked  as  Mrs. 
Marks  than  she  had  been  as  Alice  Creighton,  and  when  at  the 
Easter  festival  several  children  were  baptized  three  of  them 
took  her  name,  Alice  Creighton  Marks ! 

Some  time  in  March  there  was  another  wedding  at  the  Hill 
and  Julia  was  the  bride.  She  had  accepted  Major  Camden,  and 
started  at  once  for  his  home  among  the  pines  of  Carolina.  All 
that  spring  and  the  ensuing  summer  Godfrey  and  Gertie  stayed 
at  Schuyler  Hill,  and  when  the  autumn  came  they  went  down 
to  New  York  and  took  possession  of  the  handsome  house  which 
Miss  Rossiter  had  bought  and  the  colonel  furnished  for  them. 

It  is  very  lonely  and  quiet  now  at  Schuyler  Hill,  but  Edith 
goes  often  to  New  York  to  visit  Gertie  in  her  beautiful  home, 
where  Miss  Rossiter  spends  more  than  half  her  time,  and  where 
there  is  to  be  a  family  reunion  when  the  Centennial  guns  are 
firing  in  honor  of  our  nation's  hundredth  birthday.  Julia  is 
coming  from  the  south,  and  Robert  and  Emma  from  over  the 
sea,  and  with  them  the  little  Highland  lady  they  have  named 
Edith  Lyle,  and  so  I  finish  the  story  commenced  more  than 
a  year  ago,  when  the  October  haze  was  on  the  hills  and  the 
music  of  marriage  bells  was  sounding  in  my  ears. 

ESTHER  OLIVIA  ARMSTRONG. 


THE    END. 


University  of  California 
SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Return  this  material  to  the  library 
lich  it  was  borrowed. 


GUI 


